


Time Stands Still

by 406ink



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fanfiction, Fluff and Smut, Jonerys, JonxDany - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-09
Updated: 2017-10-20
Packaged: 2018-12-25 21:13:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 30,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12044388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/406ink/pseuds/406ink
Summary: Jon and Dany face the challenges ahead after arriving at Winterfell





	1. Chapter 1

_Jon sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed his face in his hands, scratching at his beard over and over, before looking straight forward with unseeing eyes._

_Daenerys felt hot tears threatening to spill from her eyes to her cheeks.  Why didn’t he say anything?_

Only a few hours earlier as Missandei had been dressing her, struggling a bit more than usual to button the bodice of the Queen’s dress, did the two suddenly reach a simultaneous conclusion: Daenerys was pregnant.  Their eyes connected in the looking glass, sharing a knowing look.  Dany had thought the month-and-a-half at sea en route to White Harbor from Dragonstone had been to blame for her “shrinking” wardrobe; she was not used to being so confined and therefore inactive, nor eating so well, for so long.  Never had she thought, for even a moment that she could be pregnant.

Missandei finally broke the silence to ask when Daenerys had last bled, pointing out the gentle swell of the queen’s once-flat belly, her now fuller breasts, her darkening areolas and suddenly tender nipples.  Dany’s red flower had not bloomed on a regular basis for many years, she truly had no idea.  When Missandei asked, “Who might the father be, Your Grace?” Daenerys had shot her a disbelieving look and replied, “I believe you know the man of whom we speak.” 

After all, there were no secrets between Dany and Missandei, her most trusted advisor.  Missandei had found Jon Snow in Her Grace’s bed in the morning on more than one occasion.  She had changed the queen’s linens, the evidence of their nightly activities plain as day on the silk sheets.  She knew from their girl-talk during Dany’s baths and dressing routine that Dany and Jon had lain together every night on the voyage to White Harbor, and more-often-than-not they coupled two or three times a night, as though no amount of love making could sate their desire for one another.  In truth, it was a desperate attempt to make up for all the nights they had spent apart before finding one another, and for all the nights they may never have if they failed to defeat the Night King in the Great War to come.

 A visit with Maester Wolkan had confirmed what they suspected.  Missandei had held her hand as the Maester had performed his examination and given them the news, and they both had sat for long moments in silence after he quit the chambers she had been given on her arrival at Winterfell.  Missandei was again the one to finally break the silence, “Are you happy for this news Your Grace?”

Dany smiled.  “So happy.  Missandei, I never thought I would bear another child after …” her voice cracked, thick with emotion.  Missandei turned and embraced her friend and queen.  “I am so happy for you both.  What do you think Lord Snow will say?  How will you tell him Your Grace?”

“I expect it will be a shock,” Dany said, worry furrowing her brow.  “I told him more than once that I could not have children, though he did say I might consider the mage was not an ‘accurate source’ for that information.”  She smiled at that.

“I believe he will be happy for this news Your Grace.  Every man desires heirs.  Perhaps he will propose a marriage.  He is an honorable man and Lord Snow explained to me that he, himself, is a bastard - that is, his mother and father weren’t mar…”

“I know what a bastard is,” Dany cut off her friend, and gave her a squinty, disbelieving look as she continued, “This is unfortunate timing, but then, when would be a good time?”  She gave a small, bitter laugh.  “I need to tell him Missandei, I need to tell him now.  Can you send for him?”

30 minutes later, Jon Snow knocked at her door and she called out for him to enter.  They were more formal with one another now than they had been on the seas.  They had spent every night together on the ship – either Jon came to her cabin or she to his – and had made love so many times she had lost count.  Afterward, they spent hours talking while Jon held her close, his hand twined with hers. 

They had told one another their life stories in the still of the night, the only noise their breathing and the gentle slap of the waves on the side of the ship.   Dany spoke of many things to Jon, both happy and sad, some that she had never told another living soul.  Jon pointedly asked her what she had meant, when during their first meeting, Dany said she had been ‘sold like a brood mare, raped and defiled.’  She had not been prepared for the floor of emotion as she spoke of her brother Viserys selling her to Khal Drogo, of her subsequent rape at the tender age of 13 and many nights thereafter, of overcoming her trauma to love the Khal, the devastating loss of both her husband – even though it had been a mercy, it had been at her hand, had been her fault – and their child, and the guilt and shame she still carried for all of it.  Jon held her tenderly as she cried for what felt like the first time in many years, his heart overflowing with compassion and genuine concern for his queen, but there was something else; something deeper that made Jon rage inside like a wild animal at the pain and betrayal she had experienced at the hands of others.  **_He loved her_**. 

He was thankful those that had hurt her were already dead, otherwise he would have ended them himself.  No one would ever hurt her again as long as he still drew breath.  Longclaw, the great bastard Valyrian steel sword given to him by Lord Commander Mormont, would drip with drip with the blood of anyone who would harm her.  He silently vowed it would be so.  He took no joy in killing, but could not stop his mind from conjuring an image of himself cutting down Daenerys’ enemies - shattering the Night King into a million shards of ice, gutting Cersei Lannister as she sat on the Iron Throne.  Jon had no delusions about the possibility of his death - never had had any.  He had accepted the truth - that he was the shield that guards the realms of men, and would lay down his life if need be, he thought bitterly.  Only gladly would he lay down his life for his queen, Daenerys Stormborn, **his Dany**.

For her part, questions had poured out of Daenerys’ mouth as though she couldn’t help herself, curious and impatient to know everything there was to know about Jon Snow.  Tracing a slender finger over each of the scars on his chest and abdomen, she asked him how he came to leave the Night’s Watch when the vow was for life, how he came to be stabbed in the heart, and how he had survived his wounds.  Jon explained how his men had labeled him a ‘traitor’ for allowing the Wildlings through the Wall, and had killed him for it, expecting Dany to disbelieve that he had actually died, but she did not.  He told her of the red priestess, Melisandre, who had brought him back to life, and her belief that the Lord of Light had resurrected him, for what purpose he still did not fully understand.  He also told her what is was to grow up a bastard, Catelyn Stark’s hatred of him and the coldness and distance from his family he suffered as a result, and of his first love, Ygritte.

An intimate group, those closest to Daenerys and Jon – Jon, Davos, Daenerys, Missandei, Tyrion, Grey Worm, Sansa, Arya, and Gilly – had assembled in the Stark crypt beneath Winterfell at the request of Bran and Sam.  Jon had assumed the meeting location was to keep whatever information they had to share from the ears of the wrong people.  They stood together in the cool, damp, darkness, the only light coming from the sparsely spaced torches on the walls and the few candles at the feet of the statuary. 

When Bran began to tell his revelation – that Jon was the son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen, and not Ned Stark’s bastard as they all had believed, Jon’s knees had nearly buckled.  “This changes nothing,” Sansa had said, matter-of-factly.  “You are still a Stark.  You are still our blood.  And you are still the leader the North has chosen, the King in the North.”  Clearly the implications of what Bran had said hadn’t fully sunk in to everyone present.  His throat dry, Jon’s gravelly voice broke the silence, “I’m still a bastard.  And I’m not a Stark.  I was born in Dorne - am I even still of the North?  It doesn’t matter.  I will still fight for the North, bleed for the North, die for the North if need be.”

Daenerys stood beside Jon, so close her shoulder brushed his arm.  He could feel the heat she put off in the cool darkness, through even his thick leather jerkin and fur-lined cloak.  She sensed there was more dark words to come from Brandon Stark, from this Three-Eyed Raven.  In the cool darkness, her hand brushed against Jon’s, and she caught his little finger with her own, a silent show of solidarity and support.  He accepted it gladly, twining his large finger around her small one.

“That’s not entirely accurate,” Sam interjected with a bit of trepidation, his eyes beseeching Bran to continue.  Bran went on, “Sam told me Rhaegar and Lyanna were married in a secret ceremony in Dorne, after Rhaegar had his marriage to Elia Martell annulled.  I used my abilities to travel there and see it.  You were never a bastard Jon; you are Rhaegar Targaryen’s trueborn son.  Your true name is Aegon Targaryen and you are the heir to the Iron Throne.”  There were several sharp intakes of breath before a hushed silence fell over the group, each of them wondering what the ramifications of Bran’s confession would truly mean – for the North, for all of them, for the realm. 

To Jon, it felt as though all the air had been sucked out of the room.  The only thing that kept him standing was the warmth of Dany’s small fingers entwined with his own.  She hadn’t let go, not even when Bran told them that Jon, and not she, was the true heir to the Iron Throne.   Somehow, Jon knew, she never would.

It seemed like everyone started to talk all at once, their voices slicing through the quiet of the crypt.  The echoing din made Jon’s head feel as though it would split in two.  “Enough,” he said finally when he could stand it no longer.  The voices stopped, all eyes on him.  “I need time to think, I need peace and quiet.  Leave me and do not speak of this to anyone.”  Respecting his wishes, everyone turned and began to make their way to the stairs leading up out of the crypt. 

Tyrion lingered a moment longer than the others before he turned to go; his eyes narrowed and shrewd and missing nothing in the darkness – certainly not the laced fingers of his queen and the bastard.  He had seen Jon go into Daenerys’ cabin on the ship, and it did not take much thinking to connect the dots in Tyrion’s troubled mind: they were fucking – no, not just fucking – they were in love.   _Gods help them all_ , he thought, _for love is the death of duty_. 

Dany saw Tyrion hesitate, felt certain her amethyst eyes betrayed her true feelings for Jon, but it was her actions which left no question.  She did not try to pull her hand away; she wouldn’t let go and neither would he.  She looked at Jon as though for the first time, her eyes meeting his in the torchlight.  “Not you”, he said, obsidian eyes blazing, his voice a velvet whisper. “Never you.”  She embraced him then, her arms going around his shoulders.  “Blood of my blood,” she said whispered against his neck.

 _Blood of my blood._ Jon never had a mother, never had anyone to comfort him or hold him or assure him that everything would be alright.   And he was so tired, so weary, so weak.  He’d been fighting all his life. In this world, men didn’t show emotion and they certainly didn’t cry or need comforting from women, but Dany’s embrace felt good to Jon.  It felt right.  Daenerys comforting him didn’t make Jon feel weak, it made him feel strong.  For the first time, he felt he had someone who had faced and overcome the same adversities as he had - someone who understood him completely.

The group had agreed to keep the truth about Jon’s parentage to themselves for the time being.  Northern politics were complicated enough as it was, more so now that Jon had bent the knee to Daenerys.  The Northern lords had no trouble believing in the army of the dead or the Night King, but asking them to believe that Daenerys Targaryen was not there to conquer them proved a difficult feat.

Here in Winterfell, with all eyes on them, the freedom Jon and Daenerys had to continue their physical and metaphorical exploration of one another became little and less.  They certainly had less privacy for their wanton abandon, and less time to slake their thirst for one another as nearly every waking moment was spent in preparation the possibility the Wall would fall and the Night King and his undead army would come pouring through the breach. 

Not to mention that almost immediately upon arriving, Jon had been rocked by the revelation of his true parentage.  The nights had become long and empty for them both, as there were too many people about in the castle to allow them to sneak into one another’s chambers, even in the middle of the night.  The fact that Jon was a Targaryen changed nothing for them; in fact it made their connection run deeper than the name they both shared, deeper even than blood. 

Jon had been shaken deeply by the information Bran and Sam had told him; everything he thought he knew about himself had been a lie.  Robert’s Rebellion had been built on lies; how many tens of thousands had died for Rhaegar and Lyanna’s forbidden love?  To protect him, the honorable Lord Eddard Stark, who Jon had thought was his father, had lived a lie.  It wasn’t that Jon felt his father had abandoned his honor; quite the opposite. Ned Stark had been so honorable, so loyal in fact, that he wrapped Jon in the cloak of his honor and sacrificed his own reputation and even the trust of his wife for his duty.  His father had chosen the hard way. 

 _We all do our duty when there’s no cost to it.  Honor comes easily then,_ Jon thought remembering the words of Maester Aemon. _Yet sooner or later, in every man’s life, there comes a day when it is not easy; a day when you must choose._ Yes, the fact that the honorable Lord Eddard Stark had done his duty when the cost was so great; that fact shook Jon most of all, because he realized, he felt the same honor and sense of duty to Daenerys.  There would be no sacrifice too great for his queen if he the day came when he had to make that choice. 

But as far as Stark or Targaryen, Jon felt he did not have to choose.  In his heart, Ned Stark was still his father, still with him always.  His mother was a Stark.  He was the blood of the wolf.  He had yet to learn what it meant to be a Dragon, but he was a dragon still.  There was no denying his blood.  He was a dragon raised by wolves.  He could be a Stark and a Targaryen.  He could be ice and fire; a dragon and a wolf.

Jon and Dany had managed only a handful of moments alone over the last weeks since they’d been in Winterfell.  There had been one or two stolen kisses in the Gods wood and a brief moment in the cool darkness of the Winterfell crypt before the statue of Jon’s mother, Lyanna.  Her body had ached for Jon’s touch, the sort of physical pain an alcoholic goes through when there’s no drink to be had.  In truth, he had ached for her just as much. 

They had crossed paths in the hallway late one night; Daenerys had been returning from the privy, Jon had been returning to his chambers from the library.  His eyes locked on her, like a wolf stalking its prey.  He had pulled her into a curtained alcove, opened her dressing gown open to find nothing underneath.  He pushed her roughly up against the warm stones, claimed her mouth, pushed his knee between her legs and slid his hand over her sex.  Finding her soaking wet, he slid two fingers inside, stretching her pleasurably.   Daenerys found herself hitching one leg up to wrap about his waist, giving him more access, more depth.  His tongue in her mouth mimicked the motion of his fingers pumping in and out of her soaking pussy, and he massaged her swollen nub with his calloused thumb until she came, her legs shaking and her breasts heaving, on a string of breathless Valyrian words Jon did not understand.

And now she stood before him, having told him she was pregnant with his child.  “I know I told you I could never have any children, and believe me, this is the last thing I ever expected, my lord. But there is no doubt in my mind, I am with child.  Your child.”

His legs had gone out from underneath him at the revelation and he’d sat down hard on end of the bed, the second time in the span of the week he’d felt the air sucked from his lungs, the ground falling out from beneath his feet.  _A child.  My child,_ he thought.  **_My_** _child inside **my** Queen_.  He rubbed his face with his hands, he scratched his beard over and over.  Then he looked up to see her standing before him, arms wrapped around herself, worry and fear so plain on her face, tears threatening to spill from her beautiful violet eyes. 

He stood and closed the distance between them in two strides.  When he reached her, he paused, unsure whether his touch would be welcome.  She had been so formal, almost cold when she gave him the news, as if she had clad herself once again in armor, ready to do battle.  In truth, she was his one weakness, and the thought did not terrify him as it should have.  He put his hands on her upper arms and pulled her to him; she started and looked up at him, her violet eyes wide her lips slightly parted.  “My lord?” she asked, her voice small and shaky.  He placed his lips against her forehead, then enfolded her in his arms.  Her hands came up to wrap around his upper back and she melted into his embrace.  “Dany, there’s no need to be so formal.  Fuck the formalities.  I am Jon, your Jon.  You know that.”  Her heart danced at that.

He needed to know how she felt about this child; all that mattered to him now was her happiness.  He broke off the hug and taking her hand, he pulled her to the bed to sit beside him.  He angled his body slightly to look at her.  _Gods, she took his breath away.  It was true what they said about pregnant women; she was glowing, she was radiant._   He brought his hand up to cup her cheek, his thumb calloused and rough as it stroked over the softness of her face.   “Are you happy about this child, **our child**?” he asked.  She was so overcome with joy at the thought of the new life quickening inside her at this very moment, all she could do was nod.  Jon had never been a talker, never a man of many words nor very eloquent, but at this moment, the words began to pour out of him and he found he could not hold them back.

“Dany,” he began, his gravelly voice thick with emotion, “I can’t begin to tell you what this means to me.  Until a few days ago, I was a motherless bastard with no home, no birthright, no name.  Then come to find out, everything I thought I knew - about my father, my family, myself – it was all a lie.  The only truth I know now is you.”  _Slayer of lies_ , Daenerys thought, as Jon continued.

“I had worn the name ‘Snow,’ the word, ‘bastard’ like armor – I thought if I did, no one could ever use it to hurt me.  I never dreamed I’d be named King in the North, or have as much as I do to be thankful for.  There was a time I thought I’d be a man of the Night’s Watch until my dying day, honoring my vows to hold no titles, take no wife, to have no children.  The love of a woman didn’t matter to me then, neither did having children.  My Uncle Benjen warned me I wouldn’t have given it up so easily had I known what it meant. 

“So much has happened since then.  I never dreamed …” He took a deep breath and blinked hard, his emotions threatening to spill over, and fought to regain control of himself.  Dany squeezed his hand, letting him know she understood.  Her warm touch gave him the strength to go on.

“I never dreamed I’d meet someone like you.  You’re not like anyone else.  You’re so fearless, so strong, and so full of fire, so much a dragon in every sense of the word.  On the ship to White Harbor, when we were together, it seemed like time stood still, like everything else just fell away.  I know what you told me about not being able to have children. I know you truly believed it.  By now, I’ve seen so many things that shouldn’t have been possible, experienced them myself … I’ve seen enough to know this child, our child is a gift; a gift of the impossible, a gift of life in this shit world.  In this world of blood and darkness, you and our child, are hope.  But none of that matters, it’s all just pretty words unless … unless it means the same thing to you, my Queen. ”

She had listened intently, letting every word hit her skin and sink in, a soothing elixir to her heart.  “Jon, I …” her voice cracked with the weight of her emotions, “I want this child, **your child** , more than anything in the world.  It makes me so happy, but it also makes me afraid.  I don’t know what’s going to happen.

“I lost one babe before, the result of my own stupidity, my own selfishness.  The witch told me I’d have another child when the sun rose in the west and set in the east, when the seas ran dry, when the mountains turned to dust and blew in the wind … You can understand why I never thought I would have another?”  Jon nodded his understanding, brought her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss into her palm.

“And now, with the army of the dead on the march, with the Long Night approaching … who knows if either of us will live to see the dawn.  All I know is **I love you**.”

 


	2. Just A Few Days More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected guest arrives at Winterfell. Jon and Dany prepare for their wedding.

It was less than a fortnight later, as the final preparations were being made for the wedding of Jon and Daenerys in the sight of the Old Gods two days hence, that a lone rider arrived at the gates of Winterfell and asked for an audience with the Lord of Winterfell and the Dragon Queen. As Daenerys had been experiencing some morning sickness, Jon decided he would not trouble her with whatever business the Kingslayer had from the South.  “Ser Jamie Lannister,” Jon said stiffly as he walked into the War Room, “to what do we owe the honor?  I expected you to arrive at the head of your troops, not ahead of them.”

“Lord Stark,” Jamie began carefully, knowing he was on dangerous ground, “I’ve come to swear fealty to Queen Daenerys, if she will have me. I imagine you could use another hardened battle commander.”

Jon sat down before the fire roaring in the grate, gesturing at the other chair and for Jamie to do the same. “Ser Jamie this is rather unexpected.  Last time I saw you, your sister had pledged to send her armies north to aid us in the Great War.  Now you arrive at our gates - alone - and say wish to declare for my queen. Forgive me if I’m a bit skeptical of your intentions.  I’d say you having some explaining to do.”

Jamie’s emerald green eyes glittered and he squared his shoulders as he sat down across from Jon. He stretched his long, lean legs out before him toward the fireplace.  It had been a hard ride North; Jamie was nearing 40, and the long days in the saddle and the long nights spent sleeping on the hard ground in the cold made his joints ache.  “My sister has gone quite mad I’m afraid; rescinding her intention to send the Lannister army north and instead brokering a secret deal with Euron Greyjoy to employ the Golden Company.  She plans to attack you when you are engaged fighting the army of the Night King.  And winter is coming, let’s not forget that.”

Taking in what the Kingslayer had said, Jon considered that he might be telling the truth. Cersei Lannister was a disease; she was known to be an ambitious, two-faced cunt.  On the other hand, everyone had heard the stories of the unholy love between Jamie and his sister, and the lengths Jamie had gone through for her.  And lest he forget, here was the man who had run a sword through the back of the king he was sworn to protect.  It was unlikely a man as far gone as Jamie Lannister could be trusted at his word, trusted to choose duty over love.  Jon decided this was a matter for the small council.

“Forgive me, Ser Jamie, you must be tired from your travels. I’ll have a chamber prepared for you; and a hot meal and bath brought to you there.  I’ll inform Queen Daenerys of your arrival.  I’m certain she’ll know just what to do with you.”  Jon strode to the door to call for a steward.

Though there was an edge to Stark’s words, the kind treatment surprised Jamie. In truth, he had expected to be thrown into a black cell the moment he arrived.  He had to remind himself that Jon Snow had no idea that Jamie was responsible for Brandon Stark’s fall from the tower; this was a confession to save for another day.  “Thank you for your hospitality Lord Stark, but forgive me, I have to ask – am I your prisoner?”

Jon paused in the doorway and answered, “Not yet” before pulling the door closed behind him. He found a steward and instructed him to prepare a chamber for Ser Jamie Lannister, then to have a hot meal brought along with a bath to his room.  Next he sought out the captain of the household guard and instructed him to have two men stand watch outside the Kingslayer’s door.  Finally, he went to Daenerys.

///

He found her sitting before her fireplace fresh from her bath, her long damp moon-pale hair brushed out over her shoulders to dry. She was wrapped in his thick white fur robe, the bulk of which made her look even more petite than she was.  When she saw him, her violet eyes came alive and a smile lit up her face. _Gods,_ he thought, _she got more beautiful every day._ She wasn’t showing much yet, her stomach imperceptibly rounded to those without intimate knowledge of her body.  But Jon could see the subtle changes in her body that confirmed what she had told him nearly a fortnight ago; that his babe grew in her belly.

He walked to where she was seated before the fire and dropped to his knee before her. “How are you feeling, my love?  Better?”  He leaned forward to plant a gentle kiss on her lips.  At his touch, her smile deepened to one of sheer contentment.  It was easy in moments such as this to forget – that she was a queen; that the Night King was real; that an army of dead men could be, at this very moment, marching toward Winterfell.  In moments such as this - Jon by her side – that it almost felt as though time stood still for them both.  She could pretend she was not Queen Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, but was merely a woman in love, soon to be married, soon to be heavy with child.

“Mmm, yes,” she hummed. “Much better now.  Missandei has gone to fetch some tea and breakfast, which she’ll no doubt attempt to force feed me.  I shall be dressed and ready for the small council meeting within the hour.”

“Take your time Dany,” he said, gathering her hands in his and pressing a kiss on the underside of each wrist. At first, she hadn’t wanted him to call her ‘Dany;’ Viserys had always called her that and she had such bittersweet feelings for her cruel brother.  But there was something about the way Jon said it that made it his own nickname for her, wiping away the associations with the past. 

He rose and pulled a vacant chair closer to her, and sat, keeping a hold of her hands. “I’m afraid the small council meeting today will go longer than planned.  We’ve a visitor – Ser Jamie Lannister rode through the gates an hour ago, begging audience.  I’ve just come from meeting with him - he claims he wishes to pledge fealty to House Targaryen, and that Cersei has betrayed our agreement by brokering a deal with Euron Greyjoy and the Golden Company.”

Daenerys wasn’t sure what to make of this news. Perhaps Cersei had sent her brother Jamie to assassinate her, to slay her as he had her father, the Mad King Aerys.  So many men had tried to kill her, she had lost count long ago.  What was one more?  And she had the fierce King in the North to protect her now.  She said as much to Jon.

“I can’t be certain, but I honestly don’t think that’s why he’s here. Something happened to drive him from Cersei, for him to have quit the capital suddenly and to have ridden so hard to reach Winterfell.  I think we must ask Bran to try and ascertain his true intentions, as he did with Littlefinger.  The last thing we need is another viper in our midst.  I’m sure Tyrion will have an opinion as well; he always does.  If the Kingslayer is lying, if he’s come here to betray us, I’ll remove his head myself,” Jon said with finality. _Our way is the old way,_ he remembered his father saying.  _He who passes the sentence, should swing the sword. And I will,_ thought Jon.

///

An hour later, Dany had eaten two hard boiled eggs, some hard yellow cheese, s and brown bread with butter – enough to satisfy Missandei – at least, for now. She had dressed and sat drinking a cup of mint tea as Missandei put the finishing touches on her elaborately braided hair. 

As Daenerys broke her fast, dressed and had her hair braided, Jon sat at the desk in the corner pretending to study one of the books Samwell had brought him from the Winterfell library. In truth, he studied Dany, his dark eyes followed her every move.  He watched through lowered lashes as she happily chattered with Missandei and sipped her tea.  His heart swelled with joy at the thought she would become his wife in two days’ time. They had planned for a simple ceremony in the Godswood beneath the heart tree at sunset.  They would stand before the Old Gods and their family and say their words.  He had insisted they be married as soon as possible; he would not have his child born a bastard.  Daenerys, too, desired to be wed.  Jon knew their marriage would be 1 in 10,000 – built on actual love for one another, rather than on bloodlines and titles.  Still the pretense of a military alliance had been what had sold the Northern houses on their union.  Jon was smart enough to let them think that was all it was.

They had dropped the formalities and pretenses nearly two weeks ago after Daenerys had told him she was pregnant, and for Jon there was a comfort in the finality of the impending vows. She would really and truly be his until the end of his days, however near or distant that end might be.  His mind flashed back to the memory of a heart tree in the far north, of him and Samwell Tarly taking their vows to the Night’s Watch – _Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death … I am the sword in the darkness … I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn … for this night and all the nights to come._

Tyrion, of course, had sat them both down and given them what for. He ranted and raved they had no time for such things as wedding and bedding, and certainly no time for love.  Jon regarded the half man curiously, wondering if there was some underlying motive for his opposition to their match.  Of all people, he’d thought Tyrion would buy into their marriage, seeing it as a successful military alliance. _Was Tyrion jealous, had he fallen for their queen_ , Jon wondered.  It wouldn’t have surprised him; he knew Jorah was in love with her, suspected most men were, for how could they not be?  No, he decided, it wasn’t that.  Tyrion loved her, yes, but he was far too practical, too self-deprecating, to let himself fall in love with Daenerys.  Thankfully for all of them, Tyrion lived in a world of black and white, whereas Jon and Daenerys seemed to thrive in a world of grey.  Regardless, Tyrion had felt it was his duty to be that voice of reason in this world of madness and Jon appreciated him more for it. They had become something of a family, this lot – Sansa, Arya, Bran, Sam, Gilly, Missandei, Ser Jorah, Ser Davos – however dysfunctional and bizarre.  They had all battled to this point, this moment in time, had come so far; some for the queen they chose, some for their king.  None of them knew what the future held, none of them knew how much time they had left.

And so, each night now they retired together to his chamber, arm in arm. More often than not, he would dismiss Missandei and undress Daenerys himself, his lips leaving a trail of liquid fire across her skin as he did so. He would unfasten the pins holding her braids, running his fingers through her silken tresses, lightly massaging her scalp.  He often took her brush in hand, stroking her spun silver hair until it shone.  It never failed to amaze her how gentle he could be, his rough callused hands turning to velvet as he played maid to her.

Just last night, he’d stood behind her and pulled the laces from her dress, allowing it to slip to the floor. He’d wrapped his arms around her, one hand going to stroke the gentle swell of her belly, while the other fondled her breasts.  She lay her head back on his shoulder, giving herself over to him, to whatever he desired to do with her.   He turned her to face the long cheval looking glass and told her to open her eyes and watch as he explored her body.  As though she were a green maid, a blush came to Dany’s cheeks as she watched with rapt fascination their reflections in the mirror.  Jon kissed her neck and shoulders while he palmed her breasts and rolled her sensitive pink nipples between his thumb and forefinger, causing her to gasp in pleasure.  His other hand slipped lower, from her barely rounded belly to her sex.  

He slid a finger between her folds, finding her wet and ready for him - his touch feather light as he slid his finger over her sensitive bundle of nerves. Her eyes drifted shut from the pleasure he gave her, and he commanded her to open them and watch, to see how beautiful she was as she reached her pleasure at his hand.  Jon was always assertive, but there was something about this side of Jon, when he was bossy and demanding, that turned her blood to molten fire in her veins.  She couldn’t have disobeyed him if she wanted to. Normally he was disciplined and reserved, sweet and respectful.  Tonight, he was her king.

She watched as her skin grew flushed, a fine sheen of sweat shone on her heaving breasts. He gently plucked and pulled at each of her nipples in turn until she was gasping his name.  He worked his fingers in slow strokes on her clit until she was bucking her hips against his hand.  She could see the moisture on her nether lips and thighs, trickling from within her, spread by her wild movements and his steady hand.  When the wave of her climax at last washed over her, he held her fast as her knees buckled and she went limp in his arms.  He carried her to the bed then, hurriedly undressed and buried himself inside her, reveling in the squeeze of her tight pussy, stroking in and out of her until her walls spasmed around him, milking him dry.

The memory of the passion of the previous night made his mouth dry and his cock swell. “Jon.  My love?” her silvery voice snapped him back to reality.  He looked at her.  “Shall we go the small council meeting?  I believe we are a bit late already.”

“Of course,” he answered. He rose and offered her his arm, escorting her to the great hall where their advisors waited their arrival. _She is scored upon whatever is left of my heart_ , he thought as they walked together through the halls of Winterfell.  There was nothing he wouldn’t do for her, for the child she carried.  For the first time in his life, he prayed.  _Gods, please give me just a little while longer. Let us say our vows, let me love her a few days more.  And then I will do as you command, I will be the sword in the darkness, I will make the hard choice you require of me.  Please._  And then they were entering the great hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, I know it's fluffy smutty drabble but I can't help myself. Thanks for all the kind words and prompts from the first installment. Keep them coming, even if they're not kind :) I'll keep plugging away at this crazy story in my head.


	3. Unyielding (Sansa)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa's perspective on Jon's return to Winterfell with Daenerys Targaryen, her first impressions of the Dragon Queen, reuniting with Tyrion & The Hound, the revelations about Jon's true lineage, and a new revelation from Daenerys.

Sansa had to admit, when she had received Jon’s raven scroll informing her that he was traveling to Winterfell with Daenerys Targaryen, that he had bent the knee to the Dragon Queen without consulting her, she had seen red.  When she came to his signature and saw he’d signed it “Jon Snow, Warden of the North,” she’d crushed it in her palm.  Then to top it all off, the ferret-like Lord Baelish had suggested Jon wanted to marry Daenerys.  She’d spent the rest of the day sequestered in her chambers in a black mood, ripping the head off anyone who dared disturb her.  Only after talking it over with Arya had she come to see Jon was just being Jon.  As to the idea Jon was going to marry Daenerys Targaryen as some sort of ambitious military alliance, Arya had said,  _That's not Jon._ _You can take the man out of the north_ , _but you can’t take the north out of the man._  

As the Lady of Winterfell, it fell to Sansa to make the necessary preparations for the arrival of Daenerys and her retinue.  The room recently 'vacated' by Lord Baelish would be prepared for Daenerys, and Sansa made a mental note to have it thoroughly cleaned and the best linens put on the bed.  Jon had sent another scroll before sailing for White Harbor detailing their company so that Sansa could formulate an idea of how she would house and feed them all.  Along with Tyrion Lannister, The Hound, and  Lord Varys - who she knew of course – Jon named off Daenerys’ other advisors Missandei and Grey Worm, Jon’s own man Ser Davos,  Gendry Waters, and Lady Brienne and her squire Podrick Payne.  Sansa’s biggest concern was what she would do with 60,000 Dothraki and their mounts, the 200 Second Sons, 8,000 Unsullied and 2 dragons. 

While sitting by the fire one night after dinner Sansa informed Arya and Bran of all those that would be arriving with Jon and Daenerys.  The look of recognition and hot blush on Arya’s normally stoic face when Sansa said the name “Gendry Waters” did not go unnoticed.  Sansa asked Arya if she knew him.  Arya told Sansa and Bran how she was traveling to the Wall dressed as a boy with Yoren, when Gendry had joined their party.  Arya still had not revealed where she had gone or what she had done after escaping King's Landing - other than the fact The Hound had played a part in her survival and she'd trained to be a "Faceless Man."  When Sansa had pressed, Arya had merely said, “It’s a long story.”  She had been tempted to ask Bran for the details, but thought better of it.  Arya would come around on her own, she was sure.  And if not, once this Gendry showed up at Winterfell, Sansa was sure the whole story would come out.

The day Jon and Daenerys arrived was a sight to behold.  It was the screeching of the dragons that came first, drawing everyone outside to the ramparts and the yard.  As Drogon and Rhaegal circled overhead, the retinue poured through the castle gates, a sea of mounted riders flanked by black banners emblazoned with a red three-headed dragon, the sigil of House Targaryen, mingled with the dire wolf of stark on a field of white.  The bulk of the Dothraki, Second Sons and Unsullied stayed without to make camp, while Jon and Daenerys led a column of 200 riders that included their closest advisors, their captains, and sworn swords.

Sansa’s eyes were drawn to the head of the column, where Jon rode beside a woman with hair as pale as winter snow.  “That’s her,” Arya exclaimed, the most excited Sansa had seen her since she’d bested Lady Brienne at swordplay.  “That’s the Dragon Queen!  And there!  There are her dragons,” Arya pointed, smiling, to the great beasts circling overhead before racing down the stairs to the yard to where Jon was dismounting.  Sansa smiled; Arya acted so serious these days it was easy to forget she was really still a child.  She recalled how Arya used to wheedle stories out of Old Nan, begging her for tales of the warrior queen Nymeria, and Aegon’s sisters Visenya and Rhaenys and their dragons.  Well now they a real-live Targaryen and her dragons in Winterfell. 

Sansa remembered the day so long ago when another king – Robert Baratheon had rode through those same gates.  They had all lined up in their finery – mother, father, Robb, Arya, Sansa, Bran, Rickon, Theon Greyjoy, and even Jon – to welcome their visitors to Winterfell.  She had been a mere child then, her head full of romantic ballads and ideals.  She had been enamored of the Queen and her twin brother Jamie, who had looked like a golden god in his shining armor and white cloak, his green eyes flashing.  Most of all, she had been enamored of Joffrey, so tall and regal in the saddle, his golden hair shining in the sun.  _Her sweet prince._   How stupid she had been, how naïve.  She had thought all men were like her father – brave, noble, honorable, strong and true.  _In truth, Lord Eddard Stark had been 1 man in 10,000_ , she thought, _and we may never see his like again._

She supposed she had better go down to the yard where the party was dismounting.  As she descended the stairs, she saw her brother Jon helping the woman with the moon-pale hair down from the saddle.  She was smiling down at him, and he was smiling back at her.  Jon smiled so rarely, Sansa wasn’t quite sure what to make of it.  Perhaps Littlefinger had called it correctly, and there was something between the White Wolf and the Dragon Queen.  She watched as Jon turned at the sound of his name being called, and saw Arya for the first time since leaving for the Wall nearly 8 years ago.  The smile he gave Arya far surpassed the last one, and Sansa decided she liked this happier, less brooding version of Jon.  Though Arya was no longer a wisp of a girl, she leapt into Jon’s arms and he caught her, hugging her tightly. 

Setting Arya back on her feet, Jon swiped at his eyes and hugged Arya again, then turned to introduce her to Daenerys.  Sansa watched the face of the Dragon Queen as she looked between Jon and Arya.  Her expression held a curious mix of emotions, her smile bittersweet and her eyes far away.  Sansa was just about to cross the yard when a familiar voice called out, “Lady Sansa, I’m so glad to see you again.  You look well.”  Sansa looked down to see the scarred face of Tyrion Lannister, a pleasant smile on his lips.  “Lord Tyrion,” she smiled back at him, “thank you and welcome back to Winterfell.  It has been a long time.”

“Yes,” he said, “it seems like a lifetime ago doesn’t it?  Much has happened – to us both.  Your brother has told me some of what you had to endure.  I am truly sorry, my lady.  But I see you here before me, as beautiful as ever, still standing.  They did not break you, though it was not for lack of trying.”

“No, they did not break me.  Not Joffrey, not Cersei, not the Boltons, or Littlefinger.  But they taught me many lessons for which I am grateful.  Winter has finally come, and their lessons serve me well.  When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives."  Tyrion, for once, did not know what to say and silence hung between them like a a mummer who'd forgotten their line.  After a moment, she said, "If you’ll excuse me, Lord Tyrion.”  With that she moved off, black skirts and fur lined cape trailing behind her in the snow, leaving Tyrion to ponder what she had said and the coldness that clung to his one-time bride like a veil made of ice.

The yard was utter chaos now – dogs barking, horses and riders milling about, churning the freshly fallen snow into mud.  Sansa picked her way carefully until she reached where Arya, her brother and the queen stood talking.  Arya was buzzing about them both like an annoying mosquito, asking incessant questions about dragons, completely forgetting she was in the presence of a queen.  Daenerys did not seem to be bothered by this, so Sansa decided to ignore it for the moment “Jon!  Welcome home,” she greeted her brother, embracing him warmly.  Jon smiled and hugged her back firmly.

“Gods, I’ve missed your face,” he said.  “And your wise counsel.  I could’ve really used your advice down south.  But we’ll talk about that later.  Sansa, this is Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen.  She’s come, along with her armies, to help us defeat the Night King and the dead.”

Sansa turned to the queen, her ice blue eyes shrewdly assessing the woman who stood before her, the last living Targaryen.   She was easily the most beautiful woman Sansa had ever seen, and just like the legends she had deep amethyst eyes.  Her silvery hair was confined in intricate braids and fell down her back to her waist.  She was clad in a white fur overcoat that hugged her shapely body and made her look like an angel, even amongst the drab grey walls and mud of the castle yard. 

“Your Grace,” Sansa said as she curtsied.  “Welcome to Winterfell.  You have come a long way and must surely be tired from your journey.  If you please, I’ve had a chamber prepared and a hot bath drawn for you.” 

Daenerys looked to Jon, who smiled and gave her a smile reassuring nod.  “I’ll see to the horses and the men, Your Grace,” he said.  “I’ll find Missandei and send her to you.”

“Thank you Lady Sansa.  I find that I am a bit tired and a hot bath sounds lovely.”  She turned to Arya and said, “Lady Arya, I will see you a bit later?  Once I’ve had a chance to rest, I’ll take you to meet my dragons.”  To Jon, she said simply, “My lord,” but her eyes said something more, a fact that Sansa did not miss.

Sansa gestured to her lady’s maid and gave her instructions to take the queen to her chamber, and to draw her a hot bath at once.  “This is my lady’s maid Jeyne, Your Grace.  She will take you to your room and see to your bath.  Please let her know if there is ought you need and she will see to it.”  With that, Daenerys followed Jeyne into the castle.  Jon had gone off, presumably to see to the horses and the men that had rode in with him.  “Arya,” Sansa said, realizing someone very important was missing, “where is Bran?”

Arya replied that he was probably in the godswood.  Sansa nodded; Bran had been spending hours upon hours there lately, trying to hone his skills and learn all that he could about the Night King.  The last several days, Bran had said a number of times that he needed to speak with Jon urgently upon his arrival, that he had something important to tell him.  _Well, it would just have to wait a bit longer_ , Sansa thought, her eyes scanning over the crowd which was beginning to disburse. 

The majority of the free riders had filtered back out the gates to where the camps were being setup.  About 30 people remained in the inner keep, several were leading groups of horses to the stables.  Among them she saw Lady Brienne and her squire, Podrick.  Arya had joined them, and the three were engaged in rapt conversation.  She had given instructions to the stewards on where to house the advisors Jon and Daenerys had brought with them; she saw Varys, Tyrion and Ser Jorah Mormont being led into the keep.

Suddenly Sansa met a set of familiar grey-brown eyes; it was Sandor Clegane -The Hound.  Sansa froze.  She had known he was coming with Jon, but she wasn’t truly prepared for the effect seeing him again would have on her.  Her mind flashed back to the night of the siege on King’s Landing, when she had fled to the safety of her room and bolted the door only to find him there in her darkened room.  He was drunk, in her bed, and covered with blood.  At first, Sansa had been utterly terrified, so frightened she couldn’t even recall a single song when he’d told her to sing for him.  But she had looked into those brown eyes and seen a sadness there, seen a vulnerability, though she wasn’t convinced wouldn’t hurt her.  He’d offered to take her home to Winterfell, but she had stayed instead to take her chances with King Stannis. In hindsight, she wished she’d taken her chances with The Hound.  They had all used her, the players in the great game – Queen Cersei, Lord Tywin, Prince Joffrey, Lord Baelish, the Boltons.  She thought of the scroll she’d sent to her brother Robb, naming her father a traitor, the one Arya had found and threatened her with.  _He was right_ , she thought sadly, _she had been like a frightened little bird, singing the songs they taught her.  And she had learned all too well that life was not a song, had learned it to her sorrow._

Sandor saw Sansa too, saw her eyes lock right on his.  She’d grown up; his little bird was a woman grown now, even more beautiful than he remembered.  He’d gone to her room the night of the siege, drunk and disillusioned, thinking her safely ensconced with the Queen in Maegor’s Holdfast.  He’d never met any lady so innocent or pure as Sansa, not in all his miserable life.  All he’d wanted that night was to feel close to her, to smell her sweet scent, to pretend in his final moments before Stannis’ forces stormed the castle and gutted them all that she didn’t look at him in sheer terror.  In the end, he’d terrified her anyway.  She wouldn’t leave with him, deciding instead to take her chances with Stannis.  He’d taken one last look at her, committing every detail to memory before he’d walked out the door – her deep auburn hair, flax-blue eyes, skin the color of seashells.  Sandor conjured her image to keep him company many lonely nights on the road, wondering whatever had become of her. 

Though he did not realize it, his feet moved of their own accord, and suddenly he was standing there before her.  Sandor spoke first. “Hello little bird,” he said.

“Ser Sandor,” she said, wary, “I was surprised to hear you had joined with my brother.”

“I’m no knight little bird, remember?  Just the Hound, just a fucking dog.  I’m only here because I have work to do, that’s all.  A hound will die for you, but never lie to you.  And he’ll look you straight in the face.  You needn’t worry.”

She’d remember him saying that bit about hounds to her before, years ago when he had told of the story of his sigil.  “You say you are no knight, but you are not just a fucking dog; I’ve known men who were Sers, but no true knights, men who were worse than dogs.  I’ve fed men worse than you to dogs.  I’ve made men worse than you disappear.  Their bones, their words, their houses, their names, all memory of them – gone.”  She took a deep breath.

“Thank you for what you did for Arya, and for Jon beyond the Wall.  The North remembers, and we owe you a great debt.”

He was surprised to hear her curse, to hear her speak coldly of feeding men to dogs and wiping all trace of them from this world.  He wondered what had happened to her that she no longer showed any trace of the girl he had known.  _That girl is dead_ , he thought to himself _, I can see it in her eyes_.  A bitter smile twisted across his lips at that realization.  “You owe me nothing, little bird.  I’d best see to my horse,” he rasped, and with a nod, he took himself and his horse off to the stables.   He turned back a moment, looking at her rigid form over his shoulder – she stood tall and proud, as beautiful and perfect as a porcelain doll in the fading light, clad all in black, no trace of fear or emotion on her face or in her eyes.  He knew in that instant if anyone hurt her ever again, even so much as thought about harming a hair on her head, he would fucking gut them for it without a second thought.

Later in her chamber as Sansa changed for dinner, she decided she would speak to Jon about knighting Sandor Clegane.  Mayhap in this world, such things no longer mattered, but he deserved it regardless.  He had saved her, more than once, though she had been too stupid and frightened of him at the time to realize it.  He had kept Arya alive and out of the hands of their enemies, even fighting Lady Brienne to the death (well, near-death as it turned out).  And he had put his life on the line to go beyond the Wall with Jon to procure a wight to prove that the army of the dead was real.  If that was not worthy of knighthood, Sansa did not know what was.

She was looking forward to seeing everyone gathered in the great hall, and to having what remained of her family back under the roof of Winterfell.  It had been so long since they had all been together.  She was dismayed when a guard appeared at her door with a note from Samwell Tarly written on Bran’s behalf, summoning her to the crypts at once.  Apparently he had some important news that couldn’t wait.

When Sansa arrived at the crypts, Jon and Daenerys were already there.  They stood before the statue of her Aunt Lyanna talking.  Sansa thought they were oddly intimate with one another, they seemed to share a closeness that was more than one would expect from a mere military alliance.  As Sansa approached, they abruptly stopped talking, looking for all the world like two children caught at some conspiracy.  Sansa stopped behind them, and said, “Our Aunt Lyanna.  Have you told her the story Jon?”

Jon turned, scowling, “The wars of the past do not matter, Sansa.  I saw no point in dredging it up.”

Sansa disregarded her brother, looking forward at the statue as she spoke,  “Lyanna was pledged to Robert Baratheon; your brother Rhaegar kidnapped her and raped her.  He paid for his treachery on the Trident, but not before tens of thousands died because of his actions.”

Daenerys regarded the statue of Lyanna thoughtfully, then turned to face Sansa.  Even in the darkness of the crypts, her violet eyes smoldered, and her voice was smooth and cold as ice.  “I never knew my brother Rhaegar; sadly he died when I was but a babe.  Ser Barristan Selmy was kingsguard to my father.  He told me that he knew my brother well.  He painted a picture of Rhaegar as a man much loved by the common people, a man who did not enjoy the suffering of others or killing .  My brother Viserys also used to tell me stories.  He was only 6 when we fled Westeros, but he could still recall some memories of our brother.  I suppose he rather idolized Rhaegar, so perhaps he embellished his tales, but I do not think Ser Barristan played me false.  One tale that he told quite often was of the Battle of the Trident, where Ser Barristan himself nearly died, and Rhaegar valiantly battling the Usurper in the bloody waters – fighting and dying for the woman he loved.”

“Elia Martell,” Jon interjected, referring to Rhaegar’s queen.

A sad smile flashed across Daenerys’ face, gone so fast Sansa wasn’t sure it was ever there at all. She continued, “As I have heard the story told, Rhaegar died with a name upon his lips but it was not Elia. It was a whisper on his dying breath - ‘ _Lyanna’.”_

Jon’s obsidian eyes widened at this and he could not seem to find his voice.  Sansa, stunned to silence, turned suddenly pale.  But before anything further could be said, they realized the rest of the group arrived, including Bran, who had been carried down in his wheel chair by Ser Jorah and Ser Davos.  In truth, Daenerys’ revelation was merely the first to be dropped on them that night and it would not be the last. 

When Bran told them all that Jon was not the son of Lord Eddard Stark, but in fact, the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark, Sansa felt for the all the world like she was outside of her body watching it all unfold as though she herself were one of the stone statues - one of the unseeing Kings of Winter.  She heard her own voice saying Jon was still a Stark, still the ruler they had all chosen.  Then she heard Jon say he was still a bastard, but that he would fight – and die – for the North.  When Bran refuted that, his voice flat and unfeeling, saying Jon was trueborn and the heir to Iron Throne, that was when seven hells had broken loose with everyone talking at once.  That had snapped Sansa out of it, that and Jon commanding them all to leave – except for her, Daenerys, the Dragon Queen.

While everyone else had fled the crypt and gone up to the great hall to dine, Jon and Daenerys had remained below for some time.  They had finally emerged to join the feast, which had been given to honor their alliance and the return of the remaining Starks to Winterfell, Sansa’s keen eye did not miss the bruised lips of the Dragon Queen, or the way Jon looked at her across the table – like Daenerys was on the menu.  The fact that everyone was openly talking about them, and questioning who had the truer claim to rule the Seven Kingdoms had no effect whatsoever.  Neither did the fact everyone stopped talking the instant Jon and Daenerys walked in and sat down.  It was as though they had eyes and ears only for one another.  Sansa had never seen Jon act like this before, and while he was still dark, brooding and serious, it was clear Daenerys had invaded his system and his defenses were beginning to crumble.    

Later, alone in her chamber, Sansa sat before the looking glass brushing her hair. _My skin has turned to porcelain,_ she thought as she looked at her reflection in the candlelight, _to ivory, to steel_.  She resolved in the coming days to find out more about the Queen.  _Knowledge is power_ , came another unbidden thought, a cold shiver running down her spine as she recalled one of the many lessons Cersei Lannister had taught her.  She would seek out those who had come from Essos with Daenerys and hear what they had to say about their queen.  She would uncover whatever was going on between her and Jon.  Jon had faced his own trials in life, but he had not been through what Sansa had been through, had not survived what she had survived.  She had become hard and unyielding, as sharp and unforgiving as Valyrian steel.  There was no such thing as love, no such thing as trust.  _She had once loved Prince Joffrey with all her heart, and admired and trusted his mother, the queen.  They had repaid that love and trust with her father’s head._ Sansa would never make that mistake again, and she would not let Jon make it either.  If she could spare him that lesson, she would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, no smut in this chapter my lovelies - just a lot of angst and bitterness because it's about Sansa and she's still out there in emotional turmoil (for now) and she's a major cynic. This was a difficult one to write, as Sansa's character has always seemed a bit flat to me. But I've developed her a little bit, and I have big plans for her in the future and what she finds out about Daenerys from the people who came with her from Essos. It was fun to write the reunion with The Hound and I'm looking forward to seeing where that goes. Let me know if you have ideas! As always, your thoughts are very welcome.


	4. She Would Live (Arya)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recent events at Winterfell from Arya's perspective, including a reunion with Gendry and her first time riding a dragon.

_Dragons!  Real live dragons_ , Arya thought giddily as she watched from the battlements as they circled overhead. _I am acting like a stupid girl,_ Arya thought annoyed with herself, _when I should be acting like no one_.  The smile died from her lips.  It had been so long since she had been awed and amazed by anything.  Most days she felt like she was a hundred years older than her 16 years, as though her humor and smiles had turned to dust and floated away on the wind.  Any attempt at looking back on the happiness of her childhood meant all she saw was ashes and blood.  The last joy she had felt was when she had slid her knife across Petyr Baelish’s throat and watched his life’s blood drain onto the polished stone floor of the great hall.  She mostly felt ambivalence these days, like a great black chasm had opened inside her and swallowed up all her emotions.

Queen Daenerys Stormborn and her dragons had arrived in Winterfell two days ago.   Even with everything she had seen in her short life, knowing magic was real and alive in the Seven Kingdoms, Arya still woke up each morning and thought it must have been a dream.  That is, until she heard the shrill shrieks of the dragons outside.  Yesterday, the queen had taken Arya with her up onto Drogon. He was the reincarnation of Balerion the Dread if Tyrion Lannister was to be believed, and they had soared ever so high.   Sansa had voiced her concerns for Arya’s safety, imploring Jon to put a stop to it, and when did not, becoming almost belligerent.  Jon, for his part, had looked at Sansa askance and said, “I hardly think the greatest danger she faces is a ride on a dragon.  Besides, Daenerys is an expert rider and she’ll be looking after Arya.”  Sansa had given Jon a black look for that. 

Arya wasn’t the least bit afraid, not of the great black beast nor the great heights to which he soared.  If she fell, she thought, at least she’d have died living which was more than she could say for Sansa, who never left the perceived safety of Winterfell.  As she settled in on Drogon’s back and wrapped her arms around Daenerys, she called to Sansa, “Valar Morghulis, sweet sister,” an impish smile on her face.  Daenerys, hearing this, turned her head over her shoulder to Arya. “Yes,” she said, “all men must die. But we are not men.”

Ever since she was a little girl, Arya had been fascinated with the tales of dragons and dragon lords and warrior queens.  In her darkest hours when she had felt like giving up, she had drawn inspiration and the will to keep going from the stories of fierce and fearsome female warriors - Nymeria, Visenya and Rhaenys.  So meeting Queen Daenerys, for Arya, was like meeting a mythical storybook hero.  Arya had taken an instant liking to her, peppering her with questions about the dragons and her famous ancestors.  To Arya, the queen fairly glowed with an ethereal, otherworldly light.  From her moon pale hair to her exotic violet eyes, it was plain to Arya that Dany was unlike anybody else.  She was the blood of Old Valyria, the Last Dragon.  Except she wasn’t.

The night Jon and Daenerys arrived in Winterfell, Bran had summoned them all to the crypts to reveal that he, along with Samwell Tarly, had made a shocking discovery: Jon was the son of Lyanna Stark and Aegon Targaryen, and he was never a bastard.  It had changed nothing for Arya; she had always felt closest to Jon, had always loved him best of all her siblings.  _And anyway_ , she thought, _Jon was still a Stark._   He still **felt** like a brother to her.  Arya had learned blood accounted for little and less in this world; when it came to family, it was not a matter of blood, but a matter of who you could depend on, who you could trust with your life.  She thought of Gendry then.

Gendry as it turned out, had escaped Stannis’ red woman with the help of Ser Davos and hid in plain sight in King’s Landing.  Arya had been surprised to learn he’d accompanied her brother north, beyond the Wall on the wight hunt.  She had added three names to her list for Gendry, thinking she had lost him forever, yet he was here in Winterfell - flesh and bone and alive.  She had not seen him the day Jon’s party rode in, being too distracted by Daenerys and her dragons to notice much else.  She had seen him the next morning, having gone to the blacksmith’s to inspect the new dragonglass weapons they were making at a fevered rate. 

As she fingered a dragonglass knife with an antlered handle, she felt eyes upon her back.  She turned to see him looking at her then – he stood a few inches taller, heavier with muscle, dark hair cropped short.  He had been working at the forge and had no shirt on, revealing his heavily muscled arms and chest.  Sweat dripped from his brow and into his eyes, but he did not seem to care.  But it **was** Gendry.  _He looks as surprised to see me as I am to see him_ , she thought.  Seeing him for the first time took the breath right out of her lungs.  They walked toward one another, his eyes locked on hers, no trace of trepidation in their steps. They both spoke at the exact same moment.

“How did you –“, she began.

“What happened to –“, he cut her off.

They both laughed.  Gendry did not hesitate for another moment, pulling Arya into his arms and giving her a warm embrace.  She hugged him back fiercely, wrapping her arms around his thick neck.  It seemed to her that time stood still in that moment.  All that they had endured came flooding back to her.  She suddenly felt like she’d known him forever, not that she’d met him scant years before, while running for her life dressed as a boy.  It was Gendry who broke away first, though he did not let her go.  “M'lady,” he said, his Flea Bottom accent as welcome to her ears as a mummer’s wood harp, “I never thought I’d see you again.  It’s probably not appropriate, me touching you like this, you being a highborn lady and all.”

“Doesn’t matter,” she said, her voice soft and smoky, a cashmere kiss to Gendry’s ears.  She did not understand the funny feeling she had in her tummy, or why her heart was beating wildly in her chest.  Stranger still was the growing warmth between her legs and the moisture she felt beginning there.

Gendry looked at her as if seeing her for the first time.  She still dressed like a boy, but where she had once been flat-chested and stick-thin, she now had a woman’s body.   Even boy’s clothes couldn’t hide that.  He couldn’t avoid the feel of her lean curves with her body pressed against his.  The muscles of his arms brushed against the sides of her breasts.  He looked at her face as though he were memorizing it in case they got separated again.  Her eyes were dark grey orbs speckled with brown, large and wide-set beneath dark slashing brows.  Her deep chestnut hair was pulled back from her face, giving her a severe look, and she wore no rouge on her cheeks nor kohl around her eyes.  Those eyes looked at him now, questioning, though she said nothing.  His arms tightened around her.

“Gendry, how’s that armor coming?” Jon’s question broke the smoldering silence of the blacksmith’s shop a bare moment before he entered.  Gendry and Arya jumped like two teenagers caught necking.  Gendry quickly released her and turned to Jon.  He cleared his throat and answered, “Nearly finished, m'lord.”  But it was not fast enough; Jon had seen the two of them embracing.  Gendry showed Jon the armor, pointing out the finer details.  Arya pretended to be fascinated with the daggers on the table. 

Jon made a couple of minor adjustments to the design that Gendry was working on.  Arya watched out of the corner of her eye as Jon and Gendry talked, occasionally pointing to this spot or that on the piece of armor in question.  When Jon seemed satisfied, he turned toward the door and made to leave.  “Arya,” he said, “walk with me.”  It was not a request.   She gave Gendry a sullen glance and followed her brother out the door.

The air outside the forge was cool and crisp.  Jon narrowed his strides to match Arya’s pace.  “How d’you know Gendry?” he asked her.

She took a deep breath.  “After father was beheaded, a brother of the Night’s Watch – Yoren – he got me out of the city.  He dressed me as a boy, cut my hair, and called me Arry.  He was going to take me to you, at the Wall.  Yoren saved my life, and it cost him his own.  Gendry was an armorer’s apprentice in King’s Landing.  His master dismissed him, and he came with us, to join the Night’s Watch.  Gendry … he … he knew – about me, that I was a girl – he kept my secret and … kept me safe.  After Yoren was killed, we were taken prisoner by the Lannisters at Harrenhal.  We got away, but got captured by the Brotherhood.  They found out who I was.  They were going to ransom me to our Uncle, the Blackfish.  They sold Gendry to a red witch, a sacrifice for the Lord of Light.  They’re on my list for that – Lord Beric Dondarrion, Thoros of Myr, Melisandre.”  She had said those names over and over countless times on long, endless nights before she could even think about sleep.

“Your list?” Jon asked, a hint of humor in his gravelly voice.  What he had seen between her and Gendry was temporarily forgotten.

“The list of people I’m going to kill,” Arya said matter-of-factly.

“And you’ve killed many people have you?  Tell me true.”

“A few,” she replied, intentionally leaving out the real number.  She admired Jon more than anyone she knew; she wanted him to know she was not craven and could do what had to be done, but she did not want him to know the full extent of what she’d become.

“How did you do it?” Jon eyed her curiously.  Sansa had told him Arya had trained in Braavos among the Faceless Men, and that she had cut Littlefinger’s throat without a moment’s hesitation.

Arya stopped and looked Jon dead in the eye.  “I stuck them with the pointy end.”

Jon snorted, then laughed.  Arya joined him.  “Alright little sister,” he said, “I believe you know what you’re about.”  He nodded toward Needle, hanging in its scabbard from her hip.  “D’you think it’s about time we upgraded your sword?  You’re not a skinny little twig of 11 anymore.  Lady Brienne tells me you’re a fearsome swordswoman, a force to be reckoned with.”

Arya had the grace to blush, maybe for the first time in her life.  She had watched in awe as Brienne defeated the Hound in single combat.  Normally words were just wind, but coming from Brienne, Arya considered them to be high praise.  Coming from Jon, she knew them to be true.

Arya considered Jon’s proposal for a moment.  She loved Needle, the sword Jon had given her before they’d left Winterfell years before.  It was precious to her because Jon had Mikken make it for her special, and because it had served her well.  But she knew Jon was right, and she respected his opinion so she’d agreed to it.  Jon said he’d like to spar with her to get a feel for her grip and fighting style.  They made plans for it the following day. 

Before taking her leave of him, Arya asked Jon if he knew where Queen Daenerys was.  She knew that he knew where she was because she’d seen the way her brother looked at the queen.  It was the way her father used to look at her mother, as though she’d pierced his soul and his love came leaking out.  _All men are made of water_ , her dancing master Syrio Forel had said once. _If you pierce them, the water leaks out and they die.  Boy, girl … you are a sword; that is all._   Daenerys was a sword, she thought.  She hoped Jon wouldn’t die, not yet anyway, and not for love.

She found Daenerys sitting with Bran before the heart tree.  Ghost lay at their feet.  It looked like they were having a conversation.  It seemed an odd scene to Arya: a son of ice and a daughter of fire with a Dire Wolf lazing at their feet.  Snow began to drift down from the sky, soft as a mother’s kiss.  The queen turned her face up, letting the snowflakes melt on her cheeks.  She opened her mouth and let them land on her tongue.  It was the first time she had tasted snow.  Bran laughed.  It was a good sound.

Something about Bran had been off since he’d returned from beyond the Wall.  He was always serious now, always distant.  He never laughed or smiled.  He’d become the Three-Eyed Raven and he had seen things, Arya knew, terrible things.  Sansa had told Arya how once, when she was talking to Bran in the godswood, he said was sorry bad things had happened to her here in their home.  He had told her she looked beautiful on her wedding night in her white dress.  Sansa knew then Bran had seen the things Ramsey Bolton had inflicted on her.  It made Arya ill at ease to think Bran might have seen all the things she had done too.

“Hello Arya,” Bran said.  _He must have heard or sensed her_ , she thought, _though his back was turned._   Arya padded over across to where they sat, her boots crunching the freshly fallen snow.  Daenerys sat on the rock at the foot of the tree; to Arya’s surprise, she scooted over to make room.  Arya sat.  “Do you keep the old gods or the new?” she asked Daenerys. 

“Neither,” answered Dany, shaking her head.   “My brother Viserys and I fled Westeros as children; we went to Essos, where there are as many gods as peoples.  We were always moving because men were sent to kill us, never staying in one place long.  For us, there was no time for the gods. 

“Though when I arrived on Dragonstone, a Red Priestess of Asshai came to see me.  She told me the Long Night was coming, and that only the Prince that was Promised can bring the dawn.  She said I had a role to play as does Jon Snow.  She bade me summon him.  I did, and now here we are.  So perhaps I should worship the Lord of Light, since it seems I would serve him.”

“Valar Dohaeris.  I, too, fled for my life to Essos,” Arya said.  “In Braavos, at the House of Black and White, I served as well.  But there is only one god, and His name is Death.”

An ominous silence hung in the air, and no one spoke for long minutes after that.  _Idiot_ , Arya fretted, _why did I say that?  I’m so glum, she’ll probably never want to talk to me again._

Finally taking notice of the fading light, Arya spoke. “It’s getting dark.  We should go in.”  She stood and made to wheel Bran in, but he said, “I’ll stay a bit longer.”

Daenerys and Arya returned to the castle, each planning on going their separate ways.  At the stairs, Dany paused gave Arya a small nod and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.  “Only death can pay for life, dark sister.  I learned this lesson many years ago.  All men die, but not all men live.  Life is what is important now, death will be here before we know it.”

Arya thought about that.  She had planned to seek out Lady Brienne, but instead she turned for the blacksmith’s forge and for Gendry.  Daenerys was right about death, Arya knew, and about time growing short.  Tonight she would live.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well peeps, Chapter 4 was the hardest one yet but the dragon riding and Gendry reunion had to happen so I took my chances. As always your ideas/prompts, comments & feedback are appreciated! Next chapter, we will be getting back to the issue at hand: Jaime Lannister's presence in Winterfell and what Jon & Dany will do to deal with Cersei's treachery.


	5. The Lion and the Wolf (Jaime and Sansa)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime Lannister has arrived in Winterfell. He has a volatile interaction with Sansa Stark that makes us question whether he really has any redeeming qualities left.

“Lady Sansa, I wonder if I might have a word with you? Jaime Lannister called out to her as she crossed the yard en route to the godswood. He’d been told she oversaw nearly everything that happened at Winterfell, from the accounts to the caching of grain for winter to the making of proper northern armor.  It was the armor he wished to discuss with her now. He jogged across the slushy yard where men had been practicing at swordplay earlier in order to catch up with her.

Sansa halted, waiting for him.  As he caught up, she turned her aquamarine eyes on him.  They were full of impatience and disdain.  “My lord,” she said simply, coldly, and waited for him to speak.

He lost himself for a moment in those eyes of hers; they were two endless glacial pools, their depths utterly boundless.

“What was it you wanted Ser Jaime?  I am quite busy,” Sansa snapped, clearly annoyed by his interruption.

“Why do you hate me so much Lady Sansa?” he asked her.  It was not his intended question, but he found he could not contain it.  Her eyes seemed to turn a darker shade of blue, reminding him of a roiling sea.  She cast her eyes down before answering, and he saw the glint of his golden hand reflected in them, the moon in a midnight sky.

“I do not hate you my lord.  It is just that I do not like you.  I do not like you and I do not trust you,” she answered truthfully.  She pressed her lips into a thin line.

“And what have I ever done to earn your mistrust Sansa?”  He appreciated her brevity and, taking his cue from her, let the small formalities between them slip away.  “I swore a vow to your mother once that I would return you to her - you and your sister.  I did everything in my power to uphold my oath, including incurring the wrath and mistrust of my own family.”  He held up his golden hand and continued, “Look at it, Sansa.  Another price I paid for my vow to your mother.  Does that not count for something?”

“Your sister and your nephew – son, monster, whatever he was – Joffrey – they abused me, they tortured me relentlessly … your lord father forced me to marry Lord Tyrion like I was a pawn in some game.”  Every word she spoke was brimming with more emotion than the last.  No matter how hard Sansa tried to remain cold and impassive, she found she could not, until she was fairly shaking from the effort it took to contain herself.  Her veneer was beginning to crack.

Jaime grew suddenly weary of her pity party.  “My sister, my son, my father, yes to all of that – but what have **I ever done** to you?”  His voice was imperious velvet, each vowel long and drawn out.  She didn’t like the hard edge to his voice.

She looked up at him.  He was still the glittering hero who had ridden into Winterfell that first time with King Robert: a golden god with shining emerald eyes, his flaxen hair and whiskers now threaded here and there with silver, the same patrician nose and arrogant smirk.  Sansa was tall for a woman, but Ser Jaime yet towered over her.  Still, she would not allow him to intimidate or frighten her she decided; this was **her** home.  She was no longer a doe-eyed maid of 13, a frightened little bird to be awed by glittering armor and white cloaks.  “It’s not what you did; it’s what you didn’t do.  You are a knight, you swore vows …”

Jaime lost his patience at her mention of vows - hadn’t they already covered vows?    His mind flashed back to a similar conversation with Catelyn Stark.  What was it with the Stark women and these damned vows?  He took a step forward, left hand on the hilt of his gleaming golden sword, and Sansa stepped back despite her own affirmation that she would not be intimidated by him.  Jaime kept walking until Sansa’s back was pressed up against the wall and both of them were cloaked in the shadow of the eave.  _So many vows I’ve sworn.  Defend the king.  Obey the king.  Keep the king’s secrets.  Do the king’s bidding.  Give your life for your king.  But obey and love your father.  Love your sister.  Protect the innocent.  Defend the weak.  Respect the gods.  Obey the laws.  It’s too much.  No matter what you do, you’re forsaking one vow or another._

He caged her in with his arms, pressing his hands to the wall on either side of her head.  _She really was a lovely girl – no, woman – she was a woman now_ , he had to remind himself.  She’d had two husbands.  No doubt the Bolton boy had taken her maidenhead; he knew Tyrion hadn’t.  _Tragedy, that_ , he thought, _such quality gone to waste on a bastard_. Her hair had darkened to a rich auburn color since the last time Jaime had seen her, she’d grown taller and curvier, filling out the bodice of her dress quite nicely.   Though she was no maid, she still had an air of innocence about her, and he wondered if she would blush or perhaps even slap him if he were to kiss her now.  He’d never been with a woman who wasn’t Cersei.  _Another fucking vow,_ he thought bitterly, _and look what it got me._

Sansa felt trapped, a wolf cornered by a lion. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the unnatural glint of his golden hand contrasted with the drab grey stone wall.  His face was only an inch from hers and his eyes had become as hard and black as obsidian.  Her heart beat a wild tattoo in her breast.  He smelled of leather and cedar and fresh, cold snow.  His voice was smooth and calm as still water as he said, “Even if I’d wanted to help you Sansa, I couldn’t.  I would only have made it worse had I tried.  My sister is a cruel, vengeful cunt and Joff was every bit her son.  My father never concerned himself with the wants or needs of others.  Was it terrible for you in the capital?  Of that I have no doubt.  Could it have been worse?  Oh, I can promise you that.  Cersei spoke often and in great detail of her eventual plans for you, all of which are too demented for me to repeat.  So you’re right – I did nothing.  I did nothing … and … I’m not sorry.  We all did what we had to do.”  His eyes burned into hers like winter fire. 

Sansa didn’t know what possessed her, but she leaned forward as though she was going to kiss him and then kneed him solidly in the crotch with everything she had.  He slid to the dirt with a wheeze, a crumpled heap at her feet.  She stepped over him and walked away, heading to her original destination of the godswood. 

 _How could this be the man they call the Kingslayer?_ Sansa wondered as she walked.  _He was a degenerate, a lowlife, no true knight._ _It surely had something to do with Cersei.  Sansa had to admit a certain sick admiration for the woman, even if she was a disease.  Cersei had done her level best to manipulate, warp and break the man, as surely as Ramsey Bolton had once tried to break Sansa.  It was only by wiping her tormenter from the face of the earth, along with his house and his name, that Sansa had begun her long journey to healing.  Being reunited with Jon, Arya and Bran had been a balm to soothe her fractured soul.  Jon had sworn to protect Sansa and Arya had proven she would defend her sister without a moment’s hesitation though even now, she never felt really and truly safe.  Safety was an illusion for fools._

She did worry a bit about what it had looked like, her and Jaime Lannister only inches from each other, and what would happen had they been seen.  She especially worried if someone saw and mentioned it to Jon.  Lord Baelish had once told her about an encounter with Jon in the crypt.  _He’d told Jon he loved Sansa and the King in the North had flown into a black rage_ , he said, _wrapping a hand about his neck and slamming him to the wall._   Littlefinger was no threat, and certainly no match for Jon, but Jaime would be formidable.  Still, Sansa had no desire to see any more blood spilled in her home, and especially not her brother’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so I missed the mark with an earlier published version of this chapter. What I had imagined for the interaction between Jaime and Sansa caught a lot of criticism because readers felt it was out of character. I decided to re-write it. I feel like Jaime completely broke character in S7 E7 by finally leaving Cersei and at this point, anything could happen. He shows us that he has redeeming qualities, but then he pulls something that just reaffirms he's kind of a dick. Anyway, we'll see what happens in the show but good, bad or otherwise here is another shot at imagining how it could go.


	6. The Lion in Winter (Jaime)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Daenerys finally make it to the small council meeting and Jon reveals to everyone that Jaime Lannister has arrived in Winterfell. Bran has had visions of Jaime's past in order to ascertain where his loyalties lie. Jaime antagonizes Jon at the small council meeting, Daenerys disarms the situation. Jaime swears an oath of fealty.

The members of the small council had already gathered by the time Jon and Daenerys arrived, along with several other of their trusted advisors.  _It’s grown into a rather large council,_ Jon reflected.  They went immediately to their seats at the head table.  Jon turned to one of his household guards and told him to fetch the Kingslayer.  “My lords,” Jon said, and everyone hushed, “as I’m sure you’ve all heard, Jaime Lannister arrived early this morning from the south.  He has informed me that his sister Cersei intends to break faith with our armistice.  Rather than sending her armies north with Ser Jaime, she has instead sent for the Golden Company in Essos.  While we wage war on the Night King and his army in the north, Cersei, with the help of Euron Greyjoy and the Golden Company, intends to come against us from the south.”  Everyone broke out into discussion all at once.  Jon pounded a leather gloved fist on the table, and everyone settled down.  “We have two matters before us – what is to be done to defend the north, the realm, on two battle fronts, and what is to be done with Ser Jaime Lannister.”

“Take the dragons south and burn the bitch,” rasped the Hound.  “And feed that cunt brother of hers to the big black one.”

“My lords, my brother has risked his very life to flee the capital and bring us this news.  Had he not done so, we would have no idea what Cersei had planned.  We should consider ourselves in his debt,” Tyrion drawled in his lackadaisical manner.

Yohn Royce spoke up, looking down at Tyrion in disdain, “You cannot trust one Lannister, let alone two.  They are likely in league together.  Your grace,” he looked at Jon directly, “I suggest they both be put under guard in a black cell.”

The room erupted into shouts for-and-against Yohn Royce’s suggestion.  Tyrion looked horrified, his mismatched eyes darting to-and-fro, as though he were looking for a champion in the event this came to a trial by combat situation.  Lord Royce took notice and sneered, “No sell swords here to save you this time Imp.”

“No one is being taken as prisoner, Lord Royce.  For the time being, Jaime Lannister is our guest.  We will ask him to surrender his weapons and he will be free to move about the castle,” Jon ground out in a clipped tone.  He needed to regain control, but his statement just caused the voices to raise an octave higher. 

 _He’s beginning to lose his temper_ , thought Daenerys, watching the delightful twitch of his jaw muscles. She’d seen a similar twitch before - her brother Viserys’ jaw used to do that.  It had been a warning sign that the dragon was about to wake.  _He is more Targaryen than he knows._

“Enough!” Jon roared.  All eyes on the king, everyone stopped talking at once.  The silence was palpable.  The hall suddenly looked very much like Winterfell’s crypt with everyone frozen in place.  Jon took a breath - his nostrils flaring, his shoulders hunched, eyes nearly black – he cut an imposing figure, looking larger somehow than his 5’8”.  Daenerys felt a rush of moisture between her legs at the power and rage he was emanating.  He spoke: “I am the King you chose.  Daenerys is your Queen.  Our decision is final. The Kingslayer is our guest, not our prisoner.  He has a role to play in the wars to come.  Right now I have no reason to mistrust his information or his motives.” 

Jon glanced at Bran before continuing, an unspoken agreement passing between them.  A few days earlier, knowing Jaime would be coming north with the Lannister forces, Jon had asked Bran to find out what he could about the Kingslayer, if there were any potential concerns they should be aware of.  Bran had seen it all – Jamie being knighted at Harrenhal by Ser Arthur Dayne, his betrayal of King Aerys, Jaime pushing Bran from the tower out of ‘love’ for his sister Cersei, the fact that the three golden-haired Baratheon children were in actuality Jaime’s get, the vow sworn to Catelyn Stark that he would return her daughters to her, the loss of his hand, his recue of Lady Brienne, his honest intention to bring the Lannister armies north to fight the army of the dead, and the betrayal of Cersei that led to his imminent arrival at Winterfell.  Bran, for his part, had told Jon that everything that happened had been meant to be – including his fall from the tower, and that the ink was dry on the pages of the past.  Jaime Lannister had a role to play in the wars to come, he’d told Jon.  They knew the truth, and it would stay between them – for now.

“Tyrion Lannister is the Hand of the Queen,” Jon continued.  “His is a position that deserves respect and you will treat him as such.  No one is going into a black cell.  If the Kingslayer – or anyone – betrays us, I will pass the sentence and I will swing the sword.”

At that moment, the large wooden doors swung open, sending a “thud” echoing through the cavernous hall.  Ser Jaime Lannister strode in, clad in a cut crimson leather jacket and black leather riding pants. Gone was the golden armor adorned with the Lion of Lannister, but he still had the look of a demigod.  The thick oak doors closed behind him with another loud “thud.” 

Jaime walked up the center aisle between the empty trestle tables, each booted step echoing on the polished stone floor.  He stopped before the high table where the King and Queen were seated with their council.  He regarded them both with dangerous cat-like green eyes.  “I’ve just come from your sister, Sansa, Your Highness,” he said to Jon in his usual sardonic tone, adding a sweeping bow at the end.  “The hospitality of Winterfell is truly unsurpassed.” He saw the rage boiling in Jon Snow’s eyes, just below the surface.  Feeling more himself, his lips twisted in a gratified smile. 

Jon began, “You dare …” but Daenerys, placed a hand on his arm and turned to look in his eyes.  The look lasted only a second, but Jaime saw something unspoken pass between them.  It only confirmed Jaime’s suspicions – suspicions Jon had aroused at the Dragon Pit when he announced he had pledged himself to Daenerys Targaryen.  The time had come for Jaime to do the same, he knew.  _No time like the present,_ he decided and dropped to one knee; he drew his sword, now singularly focused on Daenerys as he swore, “I am yours, Your Grace.  I will shield your back against every creature, living or dead, and give my life for yours if it comes to that.  I will defend your right to the Iron Throne and all the lands of your father.  I pledge you my sword, from this day until my last day.  I swear it, by the old gods and the new.”

Jon had expected as much from the Kingslayer – arrogance and an oath of fealty to his queen, but it did nothing to quell the thinly veiled fury roiling through his veins at the insinuation he’d been with Sansa only moments before.  He looked around and noticed for the first time that Sansa was indeed absent.   The only thing keeping him from seizing Jaime Lannister by the lapels and beating him bloody was Daenerys’ hand on his arm. 

 “Thank you for your loyalty Ser Jaime,” Daenerys said.  “Before I accept your oath of fealty, I would ask you a question:  It is my understanding you served my father as kingsguard, and that you also took his life?”  She paused, and felt Jon’s muscle tense beneath her fingers.

A brief look of concern flashed across Jaime’s face, unsure where she was going with her line of questioning.  “Yes, Your Grace, you are correct on both counts,” he answered.  There was no hint of conscience or regret in his words.  She could respect his honesty.

“My father was an evil man, Ser Jaime.  You did the realm a service when you drove your sword through his back, by putting down a mad dog.  The question is, are you willing to do it again if need be, if called upon by your queen to do so?”

 _She was referring to Cersei_ , he thought.  _His twin sister, the mother of his children.  Would he be willing to put her down as he had put down mad King Aerys?_  Unbidden, his vows flashed through his mind once more.  He thought of duty, honor, and loyalty to his family and what it had cost him.  He looked up, saw Brienne standing behind the queen, her face an unreadable mask.  Her eyes flicked to his, then straight ahead once again. _Fuck loyalty_ , he heard her say in his mind.  “Your Grace, no matter what you ask of me, I will answer the call.  I will answer with fire and blood.” 

 _Adding the Targaryen words was a nice twist_ , Jon had to admit.  Unfortunate that Jaime didn’t know Jon was also part Targaryen.  They were his words as well now.

Jaime now chanced a glance at young Brandon Stark, sitting to the left Jon Snow in a wheelchair.  _He’s obviously a cripple, but in truth, it’s a miracle he survived,_ Jaime thought.  He had been certain Brandon Stark would’ve revealed him as the man responsible for his fall from the tower, but it seemed this particular bit of information would not be forthcoming.  Jamie considered that perhaps the boy didn’t remember what had occurred.

“Then rise Ser Jaime,” she said, “and take your rightful place by our side.  Under the direction of the King in the North, you will command our armies.  I would name you Master of War."


	7. The White Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A night of steamy passion for Jon & Dany. Jaime has woken the dragon in Jon and they have a confrontation. Fresh from laying into the Kingslayer, Jon pays a visit to Gendry. The baby moves for the first time! An unconventional coupling for Jon and Dany ends the chapter on a smutty high note.

The result of her marriage to Khal Drogo, Daenerys had certain limits and rules when it came to fucking.  Drogo had taken her roughly, the way a hound took a bitch, not caring whether she was wet or ready.  It had been painful and traumatic for Dany, for all that it had been her duty.  It was animalistic - the Dothraki way - the only way Drogo had taken her for many months at the beginning of their marriage, before Doreah had educated her, telling her _love comes in at the eyes Khaleesi_.  Once, when Daario had tried to take her from behind, Dany had wheeled around in her panic and struck him in the face with her elbow, causing blood to gush from his nose.  

So it was a bit surprising to her that when she woke in the dead of the night to feel Jon behind her, grinding his erection against the cleft of her ass, she actually moved against him.  His strong arms pulled her closer still, sliding one hand down her flank to hook under her leg, and slid his swollen cock into her from behind as he swept his other hand over her breasts.  He kissed her shoulder and neck, leaving a trail of love bites in his wake.  Daenerys let out a soft sigh.  _She would never get tired of this man_ , she thought.  _This wasn’t fucking, it was making love, and no matter cliché it sounded, it was true._

Jon flexed his hips and ass, driving his manhood slowly, methodically into her dripping cunt before withdrawing it again, eliciting a little cry of frustration from her each time.  His hand released her leg and came up to wrap around her neck, applying a bit of pressure there as he turned her face toward his, claiming her mouth.  Their breaths were becoming hard and frequent as their pleasure built and strained their ragged desire.  Mewling cries escaped from Dany’s throat, while Jon growled from deep within his chest.

He began to thrust into her harder, his movements becoming more frenzied and less controlled as he neared his apex.  His hand slipped between her legs, strong and gentle at the same time, seeking out the sensitive bundle of nerves there, finding her slick and wet.  He worked his fingers over her juicy pink flesh until her body went taut as a bow string against him, releasing an unearthly cry from her lips as wave upon wave of pleasure overtook her.  She swam back up to the surface of consciousness before ecstasy swamped her again.

Jon felt her walls contracting around him, her nails digging into his muscled thigh as she reached for something, anything to steady herself.  The kiss of pain sent him over the edge into the abyss of his own pleasure.  Jon bit down gently on the soft flesh between her neck and shoulder and came hard, his hips bucking of their own accord into her backside as he drained himself inside her.

After he’d recovered, Jon got up to tend the fire. He stood and walked naked to the fireplace, rubbing at a knot in his hip and stretching out his legs as he did so.  Daenerys propped herself up on one elbow and openly admired his body from beneath the mountain of furs, appreciating the way the firelight danced over his skin, accentuating every ripple and cut of muscle, every hard-won scar.  “Are you ogling me?” he asked, chuckling huskily.  Daenerys bit her lip and answered, “Most definitely.”

“Like what you see?” Jon retorted, turning to walk back to the bed, giving her an eyeful. 

“Perhaps,” she answered rising to her knees, the furs falling to the mattress.  He walked to the edge of the bed, and she put her arms around his neck, pressing her nakedness against him.  _Gods,_ he thought, _she will be the death of me.  And I will gladly go to my grave._ They fell back into bed, laughing like children and made love once more.

Long after Daenerys fell asleep curled against him, Jon lay awake reflecting on things as they were – he’d lost much, but he’d gained more.  He wasn’t sure the exact moment it happened; Jon had fallen in love with her the way you fall asleep: slowly, and then all at once.  It was a compendium of little moments over time – the way she’d tried to intimidate him when he first arrived on Dragonstone; her surprised expression when he’d reached out and put a bare hand on Drogon (and not been eaten alive); how Jorah had told him she waited out in the freezing cold at East Watch for hours, hoping against hope he’d somehow return; the look in her eyes on the boat when he’d called her his queen; the way she’d held onto him the night they’d first made love, like he was the only safe harbor in a storm. 

The dawn came all too soon.  Jon rose and dressed, watching the steady rise and fall of the furs under which she lay.  He decided to let her sleep; she’d been pushing herself way too hard as usual, even though she was clearly fatigued due to her pregnancy.  She’d be mad at him, he knew, but if they fought over it, they’d surely have to make up.  He tucked the furs around her and kissed her forehead before he crept from the room.

His first stop was a visit to the armory to check on the armor he had Gendry making for Daenerys.  Jon knew there was no way she would stay out of the fighting, even two or three months pregnant.  It just wasn’t like Dany to sit on the sidelines.  She’d once said, “ _What kind of a queen am I if I’m not willing to risk my life to fight my enemies?”_  They’d had several disagreements about it, which had gotten quite heated.  Not that the making up hadn’t been heated as well, but Jon didn’t like to see her get worked up and he worried about their child.  It was not in Daenerys to concede to him.  It was not in Jon to plead with her.  So in the end, he’d decided armor would be the compromise. 

It was handsome armor, to be sure - made to be lightweight so it wouldn’t be cumbersome.  It consisted of a black boiled leather cuirass molded to fit her every curve, designed to be worn over a lightweight ring mail hauberk, the red three-headed dragon sigil on the gorget and pauldrons.  He’d had Gendry make matching vambraces and greaves to protect her arms and legs.  It would not protect her in a fall, but it would protect her from arrows and spears, which were surely the greatest threat to her on the back of Drogon.

After Jon suggested a few additional minor adjustments to the armor, Gendry said he thought it would be ready the following day.  “Gendry,” Jon said, “I have something else I need to talk to you about.”

 _Shit, he knows._ “What’s that Your Grace?” Gendry asked, keeping his eyes on his work, though he knew Jon was alluding to Arya and what he had seen a day previous as they had been embracing when Jon came walking in.

 _Don’t play dumb with me,_ Jon thought.  “My sister, Arya.  She’s told me how you came to meet as she fled King’s Landing with Yoren for the Wall.”

 _(Sigh of relief) He just wants to know how I know his sister.  Maybe he didn’t see us clearly._ “Yes, Your Grace,” Gendry said.  “I had been dismissed by my master and planned to journey to the Wall to join the Night’s Watch.  Lady Arya was in the company of Yoren, who had been in King’s Landing securing new recruits at the time of your father’s execution by the Lannisters.  She’d cut her hair and was dressed as a boy.”  Gendry chuckled, remembering, “Told me her name was Arry.  She was convincing, Your Grace, but she didn’t fool me.  Only I didn’t know she was a highborn lady ‘til the after some Lannister soldiers came around asking questions.  She thought they were looking for her.  She confided in me she was Arya Stark.  Almost died, I mean, I’d been talking about my cock and taking a piss in front of her …”

 _Did he just say he pulled his cock out and pissed in front of my little sister?_ “You what?” Jon asked, not sure he’d heard right.

 _Fuck_ , Gendry thought to himself, _now you’ve gone and bloody done it!_ “Beggin’ your pardon Your Grace, I didn’t know … who she was, I mean,” Gendry stammered as Jon reeled on him.  “I was respectful after I found out, I swear it. Kept my distance. Even tried to address her as ‘my lady’ ‘cept she wouldn’t have it.  I kept her secret Your Grace, even when the Lannisters caught us and was going to torture me.  I care for your sister a great deal.”

 _That sounds like Arya, but still …_ Jon’s hand shot out and cuffed Gendry on the ear.  “I can’t believe you knew she was a girl and you were pulling your cock out in front of her to take a piss!  Seven hells!”

“Apologies Your Grace!” he said, rubbing his ear, “I, I didn’t know, I swear it.”  _He’s going to bloody kill me,_ he thought.

 _You’d better not lie to me, boy._ “When I walked in here yesterday I saw you two – you had her in your arms.  Explain yourself.  What are your intentions with my sister?”

 _Shit, shit, shit!  I’m good as dead._ “As I said Your Grace, I care for your sister a great deal.  I never thought I’d see her again, had no idea she was here at Winterfell.  She thought I was dead after I was sold by the Brotherhood to Stannis Baratheon’s red witch.  We was just overcome is all, Your Grace.”

 _How dumb does this kid think I am? Overcome.  Overcome by your cock you mean …_ “’Overcome’?  You expect me to believe that?  I saw you with my own eyes.  You ‘care for her a great deal?’  Please!  You were going to kiss her, just admit it.”  _Admit it … and I will fucking kill you for thinking about my sister that way …_

 _Just tell the truth.  He’ll respect the truth, that’s the kind of man he is._ “I wanted to Your Grace, but I wouldn’t have.  She’s a highborn lady of Winterfell.  I’m just a bastard from Flea Bottom.  I have nothing to offer her, even if I do love her.” _Oh. My. Gods.  What did I just say?_

 _Well, damn.  He loves her._ “And I was just Ned Stark’s bastard, now I’m King in the North.  The world we’re living in is changing Gendry.  When the wars to come are fought, it won’t matter what the name of your house is, who your father or mother was.  And honestly, I don’t think Arya cares either.  She’s never really thought of herself as a lady.  It’s just not her, but as it seems to matter so much to you, as king, I have the power to legitimize you.”

 _Wait.  What?_ “Your Grace?” Gendry asked, unsure of what Jon had just said.  Never in his wildest dreams since he’d discovered the great Robert Baratheon was his father, had he even considered the remote possibility of being legitimized.  _Does this mean he isn’t going to kill me?_

 _And she loves him._ “I could legitimize you, make you Gendry Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End.  It’s within my power as king.  You are the last of your line Gendry.  There are no other Baratheons left.  And it would give you ‘something to offer’ my sister.  I’d like to do it, as thanks for what you did for me – for the realm - beyond the Wall; you saved my life.

“Th-thank you Your Grace,” Gendry stuttered.  “I don’t know what else to say.”

“Just don’t make me regret it.  And Gendry?  Don’t hurt my sister.  If you hurt my sister – well, I suspect she’ll end you herself – but if she doesn’t …” Jon patted the hilt of Longclaw.

Gendry swallowed hard and nodded as Jon left him.

///

Jon’s second order of business was to find Jaime Lannister and put him through the fucking wall.  Last night at supper, Jon had asked Sansa about what Jaime had said at the small council meeting.  She’d answered him coolly, told Jon nothing had happened, that the Kingslayer had been ‘very kind’.  Jon didn’t believe her; there was nothing ‘very kind’ about Jaime Lannister.  His mind flashed back to a day many years ago, when he’d gone to say goodbye to Bran before he left for the Night’s Watch.  He’d told Robb the same lie about his lady mother.  _She was very kind._ Jon called that horseshit.

He didn’t knock before he threw open the door of Jaime’s chamber, the door swinging inward and banging against the wall with a hard “crack”.  Jaime, to Jon’s disappointment, didn’t even jump – he was already up out of bed and dressed.  Jon would’ve liked nothing better than hauling him out of his warm bed and giving him a rude awakening.  Jaime had roughly 5 inches and 2 stone on the King in the North, but Jon wasn’t intimidated.  In truth, he wasn’t the least bit concerned.  He’d taken on bigger men than the Kingslayer, felt their bones crack and their blood warm on his hands.  And Jon was no fool; he hadn’t come alone.  Ser Davos and Ser Jorah waited just outside in the hall.

Jaime was standing at the window looking out when Jon barged in.  Without turning, he knew it was Jon.  In truth, he’d been expecting him.  “Your Grace,” he said smoothly.  “To what do I owe the pleasure?”  Jaime turned and walked to the side table.   “Some wine?” he picked up the decanter as if to pour.

Jon only glowered at him.  “A bit too early for wine, you say?” Jaime mocked, setting the decanter back down on the table.

Jon strode across the room to where Jaime stood.  His heeled boots have him a bit more height, and his fur cloak a bit more bulk.  Even so, he had to look up to make eye contact with the Kingslayer.  His eyes were charcoal embers, blazing with anger.  Jaime’s own green eyes twinkled dangerously, his fingers toyed with the hilt of Widow’s Wail where it hung from his hip.

“Go ahead Lannister.  Skin it.  See what happens,” Jon threatened, his eyes flicking in the direction of the glittering golden sword.  Jaime made no move.  “You used to be a great swordsman – one of the best, if the bards are to be believed – but that was before you lost your sword hand.  I see you for what you are – a military man, our newly named Master of War, yes.  But the deadliest swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms?  I think not.   I see you standing there sizing me up, underestimating me.  Don’t make that mistake. Others have. They’re dead and I’m still here.”  His own hand rested on the hilt of Longclaw.

Jaime was impressed by the swagger of Jon Snow.  He didn’t back down from a confrontation, he had to give him that.  Jaime exhaled with an audible sigh, almost sounding as though he were bored.  “I apologize for my inappropriate conversation with your sister, Snow.  It wasn’t well done of me.  But rest assured, Lady Sansa is much tougher than she lets on.”  His throbbing balls reminded him of that.

“She’s starting to let on,” Jon said, pride welling up inside him for both of his sisters.  “Lady Brienne has told me of the oath you swore to Catelyn Stark to return her daughters to her; she believes you meant to keep it.  She believes you are a man with honor, that you can yet be redeemed.  She swore oaths as well, to Lady Catelyn and to Sansa, but I believe you knew that. You gave her the sword Oathkeeper did you not?”  Jaime nodded his ascent.  “Did you know Lady Brienne defeated the Hound in single combat?  The north is full of deadly women at the present moment,” Jon mused.  “You swore an oath to Queen Daenerys yesterday.  See that you keep it.  And, be warned – you continue to fuck with Sansa, you do so at your own peril.”

Jon collected Ser Davos and Ser Jorah, who’d heard the whole thing from outside the door.  “You should have asked him to surrender his weapons, Your Grace,” Jorah advised.

“Sword or not, Ser Jorah, it makes no matter," Jon answered.  “All men must die.”

Jon and his entourage went to the great hall to break their fast.  Jon decided to take a tray to his chamber for Daenerys, and he told one of the serving girls he wanted boiled eggs, cheese, bacon and crusty bread – enough for the two of them.  When she returned to follow him up to the room, he dismissed her.  He’d take it himself, he said.

Returning to his chambers, he found his queen still abed, though she was awake and sitting up against the headboard.  Her eyes flew to his when he walked in with the tray, and he saw tears trailing down her cheeks.  He was immediately afraid something had happened with the baby; he nearly dropped the tray in his haste but found faculties enough to slide it onto a table in the center of the room as he hurried to her side.  She reached out to him as he rounded the foot of the bed.  He dropped to his knees beside the bed, expecting to be greeted by the sight of blood but there was none.  His eyes went to hers, worried, questioning. 

Without a word, she took his hand and placed it on her belly.  It was only a moment before he felt the stirring there, barely a flutter.  His eyes grew wide, he’d never felt anything like it before – life, hope, right here inside his queen.    Tears welled in his eyes, and he dropped a kiss on the gentle swell of her belly before cupping her cheek and kissing her lips with awe and reverence.  He stood and sat on the edge of the bed.  Using his thumbs, he wiped her tears away and kissed her again.  He’d never felt more masculine or manly in his life than now, knowing that he alone had planted the seed that took root within her, given her a child when she had thought all hope was lost.

The kiss turned from one of happy celebration to one of claiming quickly.  He captured her hot, opening lips with a dominance that told her she was his now and forever.  He wasn’t gentle or careful, pushing his tongue past her lips.  She climbed astride him where he sat and pulled his hair loose from its knot. She fisted her hands in the curls, pulling his mouth harder against hers.  He groaned, but the sound was lost against her mouth.

And then her small hands went to the buckles of his gorget, removing it and tossing it aside with a clangor, then to the laces of his jerkin which she slid off his muscular shoulders without a word.  None were needed.  He knew what she wanted, as surely as the sun rose in the east.  He wanted it too.  He slid her off his lap, stood and pulled of his boots, his prick straining at the suede confinements of his trousers.  Daenerys swung her feet over the side of the bed, grasped the waist of his trousers and jerked him roughly to stand between her open thighs.  She looked up at him, her violet eyes stormy and full of heat.  Her hair was loose from its usual neat braids, and tousled from sleep. To Jon, she’d never looked more beautiful than she did at this moment.  Her fingers were nimble and quick over his laces, and she had slipped her small warm hand inside and wrapped it around his cock within seconds, eliciting a harsh exhale from him.  She used her free hand to push the suede trousers over his firm ass, and they slid down to pool at his knees. 

She looked up at him again through thick black lashes as her hand stroked his hard length. Jon’s head fell back and he closed his eyes.  _Gods it fell so good_ , he thought, _her hand was both velvet and iron around him_.  Her tongue darted out to lick the length of his shaft, ending at the tip with a flourish to taste the pearly drop of pre-cum there.  She pressed his head against her lips and he slipped easily into the moist heat of her mouth.  His hands fisted in her hair and he opened his eyes to look down at her.  She was a beautiful sight, her lips stretched into an “O” around his girth, her large violet eyes looking back at him. 

Jon pulled on her hair, pushing her down over his cock until he hit the back of her throat, then dragged her back until the tip popped out of her mouth.  What possessed him, he did not know.  “If you want me to stop, tell me now,” he whispered.  When she said nothing, he did it again; she didn’t protest.  He wasn’t rough, nor was he gentle as he continued fucking her mouth.  Her hands came up to wrap around his muscular ass, nails digging in as he continued to slide her mouth over his dick, her teeth gently scraping his flesh now and then.  She felt herself growing increasingly wet, and a persistent throb began between her legs, her pussy’s way of begging for his attention. 

Jon was on the plateau of his pleasure, looking down into the velvet pit below.  He told her he was going to come, but she didn’t cease her licking and sucking.  His mind couldn’t process the fact he would come in her mouth.  The thought sent him over the edge; his cock began to pulse and he couldn’t hold back, shooting his creamy essence down her throat.  She drank it all, not wasting a drop, as his hips bucked and his dick jerked.  When she released him, he kicked off his boots and trousers before collapsing on the bed beside her, his chest heaving, pops and flashes of light forming behind his eyes. _Seven hells_ , he thought, _she drank me down, swallowed me whole._

His eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the light filtering in through the curtains.  It was nearly midday; Jon found himself ravenous, but not for food, only for Daenerys.  “Come here,” he ordered her, his voice a husky whisper.  She dared not deny him, and she liked this demanding, dominating side of her king.  She pulled her thin silk shift up over her head and tossed it aside, then slid up his body.  Jon growled at the feel of her warm bare skin on his own, longed to maintain the contact, but gave into the urgent need he had to taste her.  Putting his hands under her arms, he pulled her on top of him, one thigh on each side of his chest, then guided her with strong hands until her dripping slit was over his mouth.  He was not tentative, plunging his tongue into her honeyed core, making love to her with it.  

She did not understand at first what he was doing, what was going to happen.  Daenerys had ridden men, and Jon had given her the Lord’s Kiss, but she had never done both at once.  Each experience with Jon took her to new heights of arousal, but this one felt sinful and salacious.  At first she tried to escape, but Jon’s hands were firm on her hips and thighs as he held her to his mouth while he lapped at her juicy folds.  In equal parts, he fucked her with his tongue while gently sucking and licking at her engorged bundle of nerves.  His close-clipped beard and mustache tickled and prickled her sensitive skin.  Daenerys was nearly out of her mind with the pleasure of it, the sweetest kiss, running her hands up over her chest and tugging at her own hardened nipples.  She listened to the sounds he made; groans and growls, contented hums, lapping and licking and sucking noises.  As what seemed like the hundredth contented groan left Jon’s lips, Daenerys began to cry out.  She shivered and convulsed as she came, coating his beard and face with her slick juices.  He held her in place until he’d had his fill of her and she was like a wilted winter rose in his arms.

When they had finished, she lay in his arms, her cheeks flushed from their exertions.  He stroked her soft belly, just beginning to swell, again felt movement there.  He smiled and kissed Dany’s forehead, thankful Gendry would have the armor ready tomorrow so he could gift it to her.  His thoughts drifted to the child, wondering … _would be a boy or a girl_ , _would it be equal parts dragon and wolf, would it have Daenerys’ violet eyes …_

 As if she sensed his thoughts, she asked, “Are you excited to be a father?”

 “Truly?” he asked.  “Truly,” she whispered back.

“Aye, I’m excited and … I’m terrified,” he said, his voice thick with emotion, “but together we can be brave.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a long one my lovelies. Yesterday was Sunday and I was missing Thrones SO bad, I just decided to write and write. This one does take a turn towards the smutty and the fluffy. So much fun to write and see some of the other story lines from earlier chapters with Gendry and Jaime come together. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did!
> 
> As always, ideas and prompts are appreciated!


	8. Thunder Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon surprises Dany with his gift of armor, and shows his dominating side. Dany is touched by a gift with no strings attached. Another hot lovemaking session.

Jon led Daenerys up to their shared chamber and stopped at the door.  There he tied a silk scarf over her eyes.  He had enlisted Arya to help Gendry bring the armor up and put it on the armor stand right after supper.  He was excited to give her this gift, to see the look on her face, but more excited at the prospect of her modeling it for him.  If he was being honest, seeing Daenerys in armor had been a fantasy of his for while now, a picture in his mind that led to his touching himself in a sinful way more than once.

“No peeking,” he said before he opened the door.  He stood behind her, firm hands on her waist.

“I can’t see a bloody thing, how could I possibly peek?” she asked, a smile twitching at the corners of her lips.  “Are you certain the surprise you have for me is really in our chamber?  Perhaps it’s here instead.”  She reached back, her hands found his hips and slid down over his leather tunic to the front of his trousers.  She rubbed the bulge she found there with the flat of her hand.

“Perhaps I should have thought to tie your hands as well,” he said, his voice thick and husky.  He captured her wrists and held both arms behind her back easily with just one of his hands.  He pressed his lips against her neck, to the tender spot just behind her ear and teased, “Patience, my queen.  Be good and you shall be rewarded.”

It sent a little shiver down her spine to think of what that reward might be, but even more of a thrill to imagine how he might punish her if she disobeyed.  “And if I am bad?” she taunted him.

He gave her a playful slap on her ass.  She yelped out of surprise.  “If you are bad, there’s more where that came from,” he said in a serious tone, and reached around her to open the door.

He led her into their chamber, steering her to stand before the displayed armor.  He let go of her wrists and moved to take off the blindfold, commanding her to keep her eyes closed until he told her to open them.  She did as he bade, standing still as calm water, doing her best not to smile but failing at it.  She could hear him bustling around the room, and thought to peek.  As if reading her thoughts, he reminded her sharply to keep her eyes closed.

When Jon had added a few logs to the fire and lit several more candles, he told her to open her eyes.  The look on her face when she saw the armor was priceless.  She clapped her hands and hopped from one foot to the other, exclaiming, “For me?” excitedly before throwing herself at him, arms around his neck.  Her reaction had reminded him of the day he’d gone to say goodbye to Arya and presented her with Needle.  

“Oh thank you Jon!” she exclaimed.  “It’s so beautiful.” She let go of his neck and went to examine her gift, running her fingers over the embossed red leather dragon on the pauldrons.  “It’s mine, truly?” she asked.

“It’s yours.” He replied.

When she turned to him, there were tears in her eyes.  No one had ever just gifted Daenerys with anything without expecting something from her in return.  Nearly every man she’d ever known, while generally respectful, had considered himself her superior and had treated her as such.  With Jon, she was an equal.  This meant more to Dany than words could ever say.  Again, she wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing her body to his.  She kissed him softly, tenderly, sending a surging tide of heat through his body.   Her kiss was like the moment of silence between lighting and thunder. 

Jon’s hands went around her waist in an effort to steady himself; she was the only solid thing in a dizzying swaying world.  Jon found his center and kissed her back; softly at first, then with a swift progression of intensity, his tongue insistent, pushing into her mouth to tangle with hers.  His kiss was the kind that breaks open the sky and causes the small hairs on the back of your neck to stand on end.

The sudden realization came to them both that every other kiss they’d had in their lives had been wrong.  The memory of Drogo’s savage kiss, his furrowed brow, and bruising size suddenly faded, blurred and drowned to nothingness.  Daario’s bravado and intensity melted into oblivion.  _Only Jon existed now.  Only Jon.  Ever._

“Does this mean you’re through fighting with me over whether or not I ride Drogon into battle when the time comes?” she asked, a smile on her swollen lips.

“You’ll do as you think best,” he rasped.  “When we talked about it earlier, you’d just told me about the babe, and I admit, I was slightly out of my mind.  You know I’d do anything to keep you safe, both of you.  And this armor is one way I can do that.  Now, shall we see how it fits?” He waggled his dark eyebrows at her and she laughed.

Daenerys knew nothing of armor and all its complexities, save the few times she’d help Jon remove his in the heat of passion.  He was all too happy to play her squire, but first he had to play her handmaiden.  He started by unhooking the small closures of her high-collared, long-sleeved bodice, pulling it open and sliding it down her arms.  She had never taken to the Westerosi fashion of wearing small clothes, preferring instead the softness of fur linings and wool leggings against her skin.  Everywhere her skin was bared to him, he could not help but cover it with gentle kisses.  When she protested, anxious to don her girft, he replaced the sweet kisses with nips and love bites. 

“Mmmm,” he growled against her skin, “And here I thought you were going to be good.  If I’m being honest, it pleases me you’ve decided to be difficult.”  Her heart skipped a beat, and nearly ran away in her chest at his words.  He moved to stand behind her, sliding his rough hands over her rib cage and up under her breasts, perfect ripe fruit in his hands.  He palmed and squeezed them, plucking her nipples to a deep crimson blush, hearing her sharp intake of breath when he got a little rough.  _Like ripe berries,_ he thought.  He’d always liked berries.

Next came her skirt, which slid to the floor with a soft _whoosh._  Jon circled around and squeezed her shapely ass cheeks as he dropped down on his knees before her to remove her boots.  She put a hand on his shoulder to steady herself as he unlaced them and slid them off, setting them aside.  The last garment to remove was her soft wool leggings, which he peeled from her like a second skin, leaving him eye level with the soft silver curls that covered her core.

He kissed and nibbled on her hips, then her thighs before attempting to gently pushing her legs apart.  She resisted, whining, “At this rate, I shall never get to try the armor on.”  _Crack._   Jon’s hand came down on her left ass cheek.  It was not hard, but it stung enough to make her gasp.  She looked down at him with wide violet eyes, a bit surprised at how overriding he was being.  She loved him dearly when he was sweet and gentle with her, but she loved him this way most of all – when he was assertive, demanding, domineering, powerful.  Moisture pooled between her thighs.  “I did warn you,” he said playfully.  “Now, are we going to have further outbursts or are you going to behave?  Don’t make me put you over my knee.”  His dark eyes twinkled impishly.

She almost talked back to him, but thought better of it for the time being, and allowed him to press her legs apart.  He placed a kiss on her belly, feeling a slight flutter there, and worked his way lower.  He used his thumbs to part her nether lips, then slid his tongue inside to wander along her folds.  She tasted like blackberry wine on his tongue; sweet and tart at the same time.  She closed her eyes and held onto his muscular shoulders to steady herself.  She didn’t know what it was but Jon could never seem to get enough of her, particularly this way.  It still made her blush to think of his face buried between her legs and the things he did with his tongue.  She wasn’t ashamed to admit thought of his searing touch much and more these days, especially when she woke up in the small hours to find he had already left their bed to wander the battlements or train.  She touched herself shamefully then, though her body ached only for his touch, for him to grant her release.  Once, she’d asked him whatever possessed him to put his mouth … down there … he’d answered simply, “You’re mine, all of you.”

This time he was gentle, making long licking strokes with his tongue, swirling around her pink bud, then lapping at it so softly his tongue felt like a feather barely even touching her.  Every time she got close to her pleasure, he backed off.  She became so wet, her juices were practically running down her thighs.  He kept his hands on her derrière, kneading and squeezing the fleshy mounds like a cat sharpening its claws.  Any frustrated attempts to direct his movements was met with a firm clap on the ass, much to her delight.  In truth, she was so aroused by this darker side of Jon, she found herself deliberately provoking him.  Each slap on her ass had her biting her lip, taking her a little bit closer to the edge as she chased her pleasure.

When she finally came, all the world went black.  All she could hear was the sound of the blood pumping through her veins.  All that held her up was his strong hands around her waist.  When she began to shake and cry out, Jon kept a firm grip on her.  This was his favorite part; where she cried out his name, gushed her juices all over his face and squeezed his head between her thighs so tight he could barely breathe. 

He held her until she’d regained her senses and was able to stand on her own two feet.  When her eyes finally fluttered open and she looked down, she found he was still down on his knees before her, his dark curly hair a wild mess from her fingers, and his eyes nearly black and clouded with lust.  He literally took her breath away.  He stood and kissed her hard.  It was a demanding kiss, a bruising kiss, and she could taste herself on his lips.  When she brought her fingers to the laces of his shirt, he shook his head and smiled, his voice smoky, “Let’s not get greedy now, my queen.  There’ll be time for that later.”  Daenerys let out a frustrated groan, but all it earned her was an arched eyebrow from Jon.

He set to helping her dress in order to don the armor, first helping her into a silk shirt and hose, then a padded black suede Gambeson and matching doeskin trousers.  He buckled the straps of the Gambeson over her breasts, his fingers lingering there, as if he was distracted.  Next came the ringmail hauberk, as black and shiny as Drogon’s scales.  Then he helped her strap on the breastplate, gorget and pauldrons, the vambraces and greaves.  When he was done, she stood before him looking every inch the warrior queen in her shining black boiled leather armor, the red three headed dragon of House Targaryen shining on the pauldrons

“How does it feel?” he asked studying her. He’d seen women in armor before – Lady Brienne and Maege Mormont but if he was being honest, he’d never seen anything like his Dany.  He imagined she looked very much like Aegon the Conqueror’s warrior queen Visenya, who was said to have been a sensual, passionate woman - stern, serious, unforgiving – equally comfortable in silks or mail.  Or perhaps, she was more like Queen Rhaenys - kindhearted, graceful, impulsive, mischievous – less a warrior than Visenya, but no less fearsome astride the great Meraxes.  It was said Aegon married Visenya out of duty and Rhaenys out of desire.  In the end, Jon decided she was the best of both of them, his Dany.  And on the morrow, he would wed her for love.

“It’s lighter than I imagined,” she said, flexing her arms and legs.

“Tomorrow you should wear it while riding Drogon, to see how it feels, how it moves.”

“Tonight perhaps I shall wear it riding another dragon,” she teased, her amethyst eyes dancing with lust.  “We shall see if this armor is truly impenetrable.”

Jon’s features grew dark as her challenge rang in his ears.

He lifted her easily, even with the weight of the mail and armor; she wrapped her arms about his neck, her legs around his waist as he carried her to the bed.


	9. Blue Roses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa is making preparations for Jon & Dany's wedding, but it's bringing back painful emotions. She has another encounter with Jaime Lannister when he shares a story about her Aunt Lyanna. She offers him a chance at redemption.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a shorter chapter, sorry for that. I'll probably come back and develop it more later. I'm going to say right off the bat, I know not everyone ships Jaime and Sansa. Sorry, not sorry. You ship your way, I'll ship mine even if it is a crackship :P

The morning dawned clear and cold, with the sun shining for the first time in weeks.  It was an auspicious beginning to the wedding day of King Jon and Queen Daenerys, Sansa thought.  In the kitchens, the bakers were putting the finishing touches on the pie even as the cooks were preparing the wedding feast.  In the godswood, an archway of branches had been woven and placed before the heart tree and was being strung with garlands of white roses.  Posts were being pounded into the frozen ground from which lit lanterns would be hung later.  Sansa assessed the progress of the work as she passed by on her way to the glass gardens, taking mental notes of what had yet to be done.

The glass gardens of Winterfell had been left in shambles by the Greyjoy and Bolton occupations, but thanks to the hot springs that ran in and around the castle, they were still kept warm enough that the flowers had continued to grow untended.  Now that they had retaken Winterfell, it had brought Sansa great happiness to welcome back the gardeners from Winter Town to tend the flowers once more.  There were flowers of all kinds, but Sansa was on a mission for winter roses, the famed sweet-scented blue roses her aunt, Jon’s mother Lyanna Stark had loved so well.  Those being so rare, Sansa had cut several dozen herself, which she took to her chambers to fashion into a crown for Daenerys to wear.  It seemed only fitting.  Finally, she plucked the petals from those that remained for the wedding guests to toss at the new bride and groom after the vows were said.

The great hall smelled of roses and pine as the maids hung garlands there as well in preparation for the wedding feast.  Sansa supposed it might be a bit frivolous to be having a feast with winter here and the dead possibly coming any day, but it was the wedding of a king and queen, and after all, it might well be their last.  Catelyn Stark’s fine white beeswax candles were brought out to light the tables, though that would not be for many hours.  Sansa thought of the last wedding in Winterfell: hers.  _At first it had seemed so magical_ she thought bitterly; her white wedding dress, the lanterns flickering on the snow in the godswood, the fluffy white flakes of snow floating down from the sky.  It had all been perfect until …

She pushed the thought away.  She wouldn’t remember him, he wasn’t worth it.  She had so much to do in order to ensure Jon’s wedding to Daenerys was perfect, she had no time for sentimentality.  She was in the solar working on the finishing touches for the gown she had made for Daenerys when she heard footsteps approaching down the hall.  She ran her hand over her thigh to the small dagger Arya had given her that was strapped there.  She sighed in relief when she felt its outline beneath the folds of her skirt.  Only a moment later Jaime Lannister entered.

“Lady Stark,” he said curtly and half-heartedly bowed to her, never taking his eyes off her for a moment.

“What do you want Kingslayer?” her tone was clipped.

“Jaime,” he said.  “My name is Jaime.”

She ignored him.  “How are your balls Jaime?”

“They’re fine, just fine.  Would you like to check them?”  His fingers went to his belt.

Sansa narrowed her eyes.  “Why are you here?  It seems like this all a game to you.”

“On the contrary,” he replied.  “I know it’s not a game.  I saw the dead thing your brother brought to King’s Landing.  I’m here to fight on the side of the living, Lady Stark.  And perhaps, to have a chance at redemption before I greet death.”

“Redemption?  What d’you know of redemption?” She asked, as she sewed a small seed pearl with gossamer silk thread to the skirt of the dress.

“I know nothing of it, but I believe people can change,” he said.  “We are often victims of circumstance, forged from our personal pain and tragedies into people we would barely recognize.  Take your sister Arya for example, turned from an innocent child to a cold blooded killer.  Your brother Bran, who has more reason to hate me and wish for my death that anyone, has forgiven me.  Jon Snow, once a motherless bastard with no prospects, is now King in the North.  And you – from a scared, naïve girl, betrayed and defiled, to a confident, strong woman, the Lady of Winterfell.  Surely you can allow that I am also capable of change.”

“You’ve shown me nothing in your time here at Winterfell that would make me think you’ve changed in anyway Ser Jaime.  Your actions have been arrogant, callous and reckless.  You act as though you have a death wish, taunting me and taunting my brother.”

“Perhaps I do,” he answered thoughtfully, pouring himself a glass of wine and taking a seat near Sansa by the fire.  “The white cloak soiled me, you know, not the other way around.  Once, I wanted to be Ser Arthur Dayne.  But that was a long time ago, much has happened to me since then.  I will have redemption or death.”  He gave her a small amused smile.

An errant thought suddenly occurred to Sansa. The words were out of her mouth before she knew it. “If that is truly what you want, perhaps you can have both.  You are a Kingslayer, and our fight is against the Night King,” she said.  “If you were to kill the Night King, you would be a hero.   You will have come full circle, your redemption complete.”

A curious expression crossed Jaime’s face as he considered Sansa’s words. His mind flickered to the pages of the White Book, the half empty page with his name emblazoned on it.  What legacy would he leave behind?  His entire adult life had been overshadowed by his actions against Mad King Aerys.   He had been haunted by it.  Perhaps there was something to the thought.  _Only death can pay for life_ …

As he swirled his wine in its cup, he thought of Rhaegar going off to the Trident, saying, “When the battle’s done I mean to call a great council.  Changes will be made.  I meant to do it long ago, but … well, it does no good to speak of roads not taken.  We shall talk when I return.”  Jaime recalled his only thought at the time being upset he was being left behind, out of the action.  He had been so young – just 17 years old - so immature, thinking only with his cock and his sword.  Not that much had changed in that regard even 20 years later, he mused.

If talk was to be believed, Rhaegar had planned to do something at the great tourney at Harrenhal, the very one where Jaime had been sworn into Aerys’ Kingsguard before being sent off to King’s Landing, to his bitter disappointment.  Whatever plan had been in place had fallen to pieces the moment Rhaegar laid the garland of blue roses in Lyanna Stark’s lap.  _The day the smiles died_ , he had heard Ned Stark call it later.  Still, Jaime believed Rhaegar would have been a king he could’ve rallied behind had he lived, a king he would’ve protected.

It had been three days since Jon Snow had called a council in the great hall of Winterfell, three days since he had told the Northern lords the truth of his lineage and his intention to marry Daenerys Targaryen.  All those present had been shocked at the revelation, even as Brandon Stark and Samwell Tarly had explained it.  All those except the people closest to Jon – his sisters, Tyrion and Davos, and of course Daenerys herself.  His inconvenient truth had just usurped her claim to the Iron Throne and yet, she didn’t seem the least bit distressed. 

“Your brother, uh, cousin … Jon Snow … you knew before the announcement that he was Rhaegar’s son?  You did not seem surprised,” he said.

Sansa thought about his question.  She couldn’t see any harm in answering him truthfully.  “We found out when Jon did, from Bran.  He had seen it in one of his visions.  Then Samwell Tarly found a document stating Rhaegar’s marriage to Elia had been annulled, and that he had wed my Aunt Lyanna.  Bran went back and witnessed the wedding.  What about it?  It changes nothing for me.  Jon is still my brother, and he is still a Stark.”

“A Stark and a Targaryen ..." Jaime considered aloud,"... ice and fire.  You know I was sworn into the Kingsguard at the tourney where Rhaegar met your aunt.  A fateful day for all, it would seem.”  Jaime smiled a bitter smile and continued, “She was quite a woman, your aunt Lyanna.” 

Sansa’s ears perked up at this.  Her father had never spoken of Lyanna.  What little she had gleaned about her had always come second hand.  She set her sewing aside and her eyes met his.  “Did you know her?” she asked.

“I knew of her.  She was said to be an exceptional horsewoman and she was quite beautiful, in an unconventional way.”

“What does that mean?” Sansa asked, curious.

“She had none of your delicate beauty, Lady Sansa.  You have the look of your mother.  Hers was a harsher beauty, wilder … much like the beauty of the north.”  He told her the story of the Knight of the Laughing Tree, which she had never heard before.  Sansa sat in thrall as he told of a mystery knight in ill-fitting armor who bested three men in successive tilts.  She laughed at all the funny parts, though no one had ever laughed at Jaime’s japes before.

“Apparently King Aerys had decided it was me, that I had defied his will and returned to the tourney, though the knight was much smaller than I.  And of course, I was on my way back to King’s Landing at any rate.  Prince Rhaegar told Ser Barristan later he’d discovered the Knight of the Laughing Tree was actually Lyanna Stark.  She had caught those three knights bullying your father’s squire Howland Reed, and decided to seek revenge by besting them in the tourney.  Rhaegar had fallen in love with her then and there; with her bravery, honor and her good humor.  So he crowned her the Queen of Love and Beauty, and all the smiles died.  Ah, well, Rhaegar always had a flare towards the dramatic.

“So you see, what made her extraordinarily attractive wasn’t necessarily something you could see; it was a feeling, something she gave off.  It dripped from her like honey.  That is something you have in common with her, Lady Sansa,” he finished, giving her a sad smile.  Their eyes met, and Jaime thought he saw something soften towards him in those aquamarine pools of hers.  He downed the rest of his wine and excused himself, saying he’d taken up too much of her time. 

In truth, he was startled at the warmth he’d felt in his belly when she’d laughed at his japes and urged him on, how she’d sat in thrall at his words, her eyes far away and dreamy.  He was frightened of the fact that somewhere in his twisted mind, he thought perhaps if he could redeem himself – if he could kill the Night King – perhaps a lady like Sansa, or even Brienne for that fact, would hold him as he died and would tell the tale of his heroism.  Only heroes would be remembered.  It was enough to give him the will to live and to fight.


	10. The Stag

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon announces his parentage to the northern lords and legitimizes Gendry. Arya and Gendry finally get some private time together; it's literally hot and steamy y'all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really loved writing this chapter, hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it. I want to say I know not everyone will approve, and not everyone ships Gendry and Arya. I know it's not canon. I've said it before: you ship your way, I'll ship mine. Hopefully everyone can just sit back and enjoy this for the fluffy, smutty drabble it is.

Three days ago, Jon had informed the Northern court of his true parentage and the fact he intended to ally with Daenerys Targaryen in marriage.  It had caused a ripple of dissention to pass through the ranks of the northern lords seated in the great hall.  They had barely grown used to the presence of Daenerys Targaryen, only to discover their chosen king was also part Targaryen and that the two were to marry.  It was all too much. Jon allowed them to complain and grumble for a few minutes, then he shouted them down.  “My lords, I may be the seed of Rhaegar Targaryen, but Lord Eddard Stark is still my father.  Everything I am, everything I know about duty and honor I learned from Ned Stark.  He is with me still.  And Lyanna Stark gave life to me, the blood of the Starks flows through my veins.  I may be a Targaryen in name, but I am still the king you chose.  I am still a wolf.”

Being reminded he had been imbued with Ned Stark’s courage, duty and honor and Lyanna Stark’s blood had gone far in getting the Northern lords to settle down.  Then Lyanna Mormont stood and proclaimed, “Bear Island is with you, Your Grace,” as she went to her knee.  Others followed suit.  Shouts of “The White Wolf” and “The King in the North” resounded once again through the hall.   His bannermen beat their fists on the tables.  Gendry had never seen anything like it. 

Jon then reminded them the Great War was the only the war that mattered, and if they survived, then and only then would they discuss marching south on King’s Landing to defeat the Lannister forces and take back the Iron Throne. 

Finally, Jon called out, “Gendry Waters, come forward,” and motioned with his hand for Gendry to come forth.  The hall grew silent all eyes upon him.  Gendry was nervous.  His eyes darted over those gathered in the hall, coming to rest on the face of Arya Stark half cloaked in shadows as she leaned against the wall near the dais where the king stood.  Her grey eyes connected with his blue ones, and she gave him a small reassuring nod.  His nerves calmed.  He had been working day and night to shape and forge dragonglass weapons, only stopping to doze an hour here and there in the forge, or to eat a few bites of whatever they sent him from the kitchens.  He’d not slept in his bed, nor had he bathed.  Still, he walked forward toward the dais where Jon stood behind a table, his war hammer hanging from his right hand.

“Gendry Waters, you have served us well.  You ran to East Watch to send a raven to Queen Daenerys, saving the lives of the men who went beyond the wall, including myself.  For your service, you shall be legitimized and given the titles of your father and your ancestral lands.  All I ask is that you swear fealty to the North.”

Gendry drew his hammer and knelt, placing his hands on the handle.  “I swear it Your Grace,” he said, conscious of his Flea Bottom accent as his voice rang out against the stone walls.

“Your father and my father were friends, they fought together on the battlefield, they fought for a better world than the shit one they had.  Together, with Queen Daenerys, we shall do the same. Rise Gendry Baratheon, son of Robert Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End.”  Gasps and shocked whispers were heard from the lords gathered in the hall, though no one could deny the lad had the look of Robert Baratheon.

Once all of the business had been dealt with, Jon had adjourned the court.  He’d slapped Gendry on the shoulder and taken himself off to see to other business.  The lords and ladies had mostly filed out of the hall to their tents outside the castle or to the stables for their mounts to ride back to their keeps.  Gendry rubbed his face with his hands, feeling the stubble growing over his jaw and chin.  He considered going to his room for a bath and a shave, perhaps a change of clothes, but thought of all the work left unfinished back at the forge.  Turning, he started that way.

“Congratulations,” he heard Arya’s voice behind him.  He stopped and turned to her, “Thank you m’lady.  Your brother told me what he planned to do, but … I think I’m still in shock.  I’m not sure what it means.”

“Means you’re ‘my lord’ now,” she said, her voice like winter fire to his ears.  His cock twitched in response. “My equal, though you always have been, to me.”

“I should get back to work.  There’s a lot left to do.” He rubbed the back of his neck.   He felt awkward hearing her call him ‘my lord,’ saying he was her equal.  He didn’t think he’d ever feel like her equal, not if they both lived to be a hundred, though of that he was highly doubtful, knowing what was soon to come for them all.

“You’ve been working day and night,” she replied.  “Don’t you think you deserve a break?  The northern lords all brought their smiths with them today.  You’ve got them all working in the forge.  They know what needs to be done.”

“Yeah, but …”

“No buts,” she said.  “You’re taking a break.  You need a bath and a proper meal, and some sleep.  You look like hell.”

He couldn’t help but laugh at that.  She was so … Arya.  Never one to beat around the bush.  “You’re bossy,” he said, smiling at her.

She took a step forward, put her hands on his belt and pulled him forward.  “You like it,” she said, and went up on her toes to press a kiss to his lips.  “I’ve already had a bath drawn for you in your room.  Go.  I’ll send supper up shortly.”  She started walking back toward the kitchens.

“Alright,” he said, “a bath does sound good.  And food.  You talked me into it.”

She looked over her shoulder, “Gendry?”

“Hmmm?” he asked.

“Use plenty of soap.  I would have you clean,” she said, her voice husky.

“For what?” he asked, playing dumb though he knew exactly what she was walking about.

“You know what,” she replied and then she was gone.

///

He went to his room to find a huge copper wash tub set before the fire and filled with steaming hot water.  He unlaced his leather jacket and set it over a chair, then pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it to the floor.  Next came his leather trousers which he let fall to the floor, pooling beside his shirt.  He stepped into the tub and then sat slowly, sinking into the hot water an inch at a time until it reached his chest.  He slid under the steaming water, then emerged and shook like a dog before laying his head back on the rim and closing his eyes.

He was half dozing when he heard the door open and close.  He figured it was just one of the serving wenches bringing him the meal Arya had mentioned.  He heard sOft footsteps padding across the room, a tray being set on the table in the corner, then a soft ruffling noise like clothing being shaken out.  “You look like you could use a hand washing up” – the voice was Arya’s.  His eyes flew open and she was kneeling beside the tub, a bar of soap and a soft cloth in her hands.  He sat bolt upright, sending water sloshing over the edge of the tub and onto the floor.

“What’re you doing here?” he exclaimed, not really a question.  He knew why she was there.  His hands shot to his groin, cupping himself beneath the water in a pathetic attempt at modesty.

“Checking on you, my lord” she purred back at him while dipping the cloth in the water and lathering it with the soap.  She brought the cloth to his chest and swiped it across the smooth skin there, leaving a trail of suds.  “What d’you think you’re doing?” he gasped, grabbing her hand.  “You can’t be in here!”

“Making sure you’re clean,” she answered his first question, then continued, “Yes I can.  And you want me here, admit it.”  She moved the cloth up over his well-rounded shoulders and to his neck, thickly corded with muscle.

“Seven hells Arya Stark!” he exclaimed.  Water sloshed around his knees where they now stuck up out of the water.  “They’ll skin me alive they catch you in here.”

“You let me worry about that,” she said, her voice a soft kiss to his ears.  She swiped the bar of soap over his collar bone and down into the water with one hand, following with the cloth in the other to rinse away the suds.  Her fingers danced down his well-defined chest, over his flanks and finely cut abdomen, then lower still.  She heard his breath hitch when she neared his manhood and his eyes went wide as if he couldn’t believe what was happening.  His pupils were so large, his eyes were nearly black.  She paused, watching his chest rise and fall.  “I’ll stop if you tell me to,” she said.  “But I don’t think you want me to.”

“I don’t,” he confessed on an exhalation of breath.  “I don’t want you to stop, but …”

“But what?  Gendry, I’m not a little girl anymore.  And you’re not a boy, you’re a man.  I want you to be my man.”

Those were the sweetest words he’d ever heard in his miserable life.  He brought one hand up at out of the water, cradled her chin.  “Yeah, I know you’re not a little girl Arya, but you’re not a woman … are you?” he asked, realizing he really had no idea since he had heard little and less of where she’d been and what she’d been through since he last saw her.

“You’re asking if I’m still a maid,” she said matter-of-factly.  “Yes, I am, but I don’t want to be.  Not anymore, not now that you’re here.  And our time is growing short.”

He kissed her then, softly at first, then with more urgency.  She let go of the soap and her hand slid over his abs to his groin.  She found his jutting manhood and closed her hand around him making him groan against her lips.  “Arya.”

She stroked her slick hand up and down slowly over his shaft, not really having any idea what she was doing, only that he seemed to like it.  His kiss became more forceful, his tongue pushing past her lips to duel with her own, his hand moving from her chin to the back of her neck.

He broke the kiss, leaning his forehead against hers, eyes closed, savoring the feel of her hand around him.  The water was beginning to cool.  He touched her hand to still it, then braced his hands on the rim of the tub and stood.  The water cascaded down his muscular back, over his toned ass and sturdy legs in steady rivulets.  Arya had never seen anything more beautiful or perfectly formed than his naked body.  She took him in, from head to toe, her eyes honing in on his sizeable cock standing at full attention.

He stepped out of the tub and refused the towel she offered, instead walking to her, not caring that he left a trail of water on the floor behind him.  He brought his hands up to cup her face, and kissed her again.  “Aren’t you hungry?” she asked, breathless.

“For you,” he replied huskily, his hands helping to free her from the confines of her sweater, shirt and breeches.  She was shortly left standing before him in her thin linen smallclothes.  He reached behind her and pulled the leather tie that kept her hair pulled up for utility, releasing a cloud of thick, soft brown hair that fell to frame her heart-shaped face. 

She looked so good, so innocent.  “Are you sure?” he asked softly.  She nodded her ascent; it was all he needed to know.  Gendry picked Arya up with strong arms and carried her to the bed, placing her with reverence upon the feather mattress.  He lay down beside her, stroking one strong hand down her side from her shoulder to her hip.  She wanted desperately to feel his hands on her skin.  Arya reached down for the hem of her undershirt and half-sat up, pulling it off and tossing it aside.

 _Gods, she was so lovely_.  Her skin was pale as the moon, smooth and soft as silk, he thought as he brushed his hand from her collarbone over her chest to her stomach and back again.  He skimmed his lips along her neck and over her chest, his mouth capturing one perfect pink nipple, sucking and licking at it.  A small cry escaped Arya’s mouth at the pleasure of his hot mouth on her flesh, and she ran her hands through his hair.  He suckled at one breast, then the other until her nipples stood out hard and rosy against her pale skin.

When Gendry slipped his hand into her knickers, his fingers wandering through the silky curls to find her folds slick and wet for him, he let out a groan against her breast.  His hands were rough and calloused from his work, and Arya reveled in the feel of his skin against hers.  He slid one finger between her nether lips, found the engorged bundle of nerves there and stroked lightly until she was panting his name and arching her back against him.

Rotating his hand, he was able to continue stroking her clit with his thumb while his middle finger found its way to her entrance.  He pressed in slowly, feeling her stretching around his digit, not wanting to hurt her.  Her hand went to his shoulder and her short little nails dug into his flesh.  “Am I hurting you?” he asked.

“No,” she panted, “it feels … gods … it feels wonderful.  He kissed her, his tongue thrusting against hers with the same rhythm as his finger thrust into her pussy.  Her moans and small cries were swallowed by his mouth.  He felt her tight cunt begin to contract around his finger, as she threw her head back into the pillow and cried out.  He stroked small feather light circles around her bud as she shuddered over and over, finally coming back to earth.  She turned her face towards him, her eyes fluttered open and looked into his.  Her cheeks were flushed and rosy, her lips were bruised from his kisses, her hair was a mess; she’d never looked more beautiful he thought. 

He nuzzled her nose with his as he ran his thumb over her jaw.  “I need to be inside you, love,” he rasped out.  “Yes,” she whispered breathlessly, “I need that too.”  She shimmied out of her knickers and kicked them aside.  Gendry came over the top of her, resting his weight on his forearms as he settled between her slender thighs.  “This may hurt, love.  I’ll go slow.”

Arya shook her head, her eyes fixed on his.  “Don’t,” she said.  “If it’s going to hurt, just get it over with.” He shook his head, thinking to himself _ever the tough girl aren’t you Arya Stark?_   He reached down between them and guided himself to her entrance.  She was still wet and slippery from her climax and the head of his cock slipped easily inside. Her breath caught in her throat. He could see her pulse fluttering in her neck.  He stilled himself there, giving her time to adjust to his size.  “Alright?” he asked.

She gave her ascent, running her hands over his broad shoulders, feeling the muscles there knot and twitch as they supported his weight.  In one smooth stroke, he slid into her all the way to the hilt, then held perfectly still.  Arya did feel a twinge of pain as she stretched to accommodate him, but it only lasted a moment before it was replaced with a feeling of pleasant fullness.  “Please Gendry,” she begged, pressing her hips upward, wanting him to move within her.  When he did not, she commanded, “Do it. Fuck me.”

 _Gods, she was tight and hot_ , Gendry thought.  She ground her pelvis against his, begging him to move.  He was pressed against her, half crushing her probably, and she was still being pushy, ordering him to fuck her.  He was all too happy to oblige, setting an easy pace, thrusting in and out of her tight channel.  It took all his composure not to spill in the first few minutes.  He would see her come again, he thought to himself, before he took his own pleasure.  He ground his pubic bone against her, giving her just the right amount of friction, and he was rewarded with the sounds of her quickening breath.

She began to moan and thrash beneath him, and he knew she was close.  He picked up his pace, and felt her walls begin to contract around him.  She dug her nails into his biceps, leaving angry red crescents as she went over the edge.  He went with her, deep moans resonating in his chest as he shuddered and spilled inside her.

When they had finished, Gendry pulled Arya close.  She let him. She lay with her head on his chest, her arm over his stomach, listening to his heavy breathing as it returned to normal.  “You seemed to know what you were doing,” she said thoughtfully.  “Have you had many women?”

“Only two.  And you’re the only one that matters.”  He kissed the top of her head and felt her lips curl into a smile against his shoulder.  “Arya, when this damn war is over, will you marry me?” he asked, half afraid he'd shatter the spell that they both were apparently under.

 

She was quiet for a moment, considering.  “Maybe,” she said.

“Maybe?  Why only maybe?” he asked, only half surprised.  She’s such a wild thing, he thought, I don’t know what I expected.

“Well, you wouldn’t expect me to be the Lady of Storm’s End would you?  You wouldn’t expect me to sit inside knitting or sewing all day while you’re out adventuring, or fighting in battles? Or constantly be having babies?”

“Of course not love, I know that’s not you.  You will be my lady, but you will be my equal.  By my side always.”

She thought for a moment.  “D’you swear it?”

“I swear it, my lady, by the old gods and the new.  And if I break my promise, I know you’ll kill me, so … but I would like to have babies with you ... someday.”

“Alright then,” she said softly, then yawned.  “I’ll marry you - someday, Gendry Baratheon, first of his name …” and she trailed off to sleep.  He was only a moment behind her.


	11. Beneath the Gold, the Bitter Steel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jorah receives unexpected visitors at Winterfell. Bran sees The Wall fall to the Night King. Daenerys readies for the wedding with the help of Sansa, Arya and Missendei.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took me so long to get this next chapter done. I don't know if I am really done with it, or if it's any good, but I wanted to get something out there. At this point, we are well past the show and the books, and everything I'm writing is either my personal theory or what I'd like to see happen. So I hope you enjoy my flights of fancy.

Bran was in the godswood sitting beneath the wide arching branches of the heart tree when he had the vision.  Crimson leaves fell from the tree, floating and swirling on the wind with gentle flakes of snow, as he saw the army of the dead emerge from a copse of pine trees far below him.  He heard three blasts of a horn pierce the twilight silence, echoing to the mountains in the distance then back again and to his ears.   Suddenly a shrill shriek could be heard in the distance; only a moment later a great green and gold dragon emerged from the clouds.  On his back was the Night King.  _Viserion_ , Bran realized, _it had to be_.  He was familiar enough with dragons by now, Winterfell having been host to Drogon and Rhaegal for the past three weeks.  And he knew Daenerys had only ever had three, and now there were two.

Before he had even processed his realization that the Night King had somehow raised Viserion from the frozen lake and resurrected him, the dragon hovered before the wall.  His mouth opened and a barrage of blinding blue flame shot forth, hitting the great ice wall.  Before Bran’s very eyes, the wall began to crack and calve under the flame, sending great hunks of ice bigger than an elephant crashing to the ground 700 feet below.  Finally, enough ice had fallen away that a breach began to open in the wall, gradually growing wider and wider under Viserion’s flame.  Larger chunks of the wall began to calve off and fall until at last the breach was wide enough that the army of the undead could pass through. 

The Night King and his undead dragon flew overhead, south in the direction of Last Hearth and Karhold.  He looked at Bran, their eyes met, and Bran was snapped out of his vision.  He didn’t even turn to acknowledge Maester Wolkan; Bran stared ahead with unseeing eyes, saying, “The Wall has fallen.  Get Jon.  I must tell Jon.”

The Maester made haste to locate the King in the North and inform him of Bran’s vision in the Godswood.  Meanwhile, Bran goes into another vision.  He sees a company of 10,000 men with horses and elephants marching north from Storm’s End.  He doesn’t understand who they are or what they’re doing.  He will tell Jon.

“Strickland,” Jorah said, extending his hand to the portly, balding sellsword before him.  He had ridden out of Winterfell under flag of truce to parlay with the captain-general of the Golden Company.  Had Cersei sent them north to attack Winterfell?  “Mormont,” Harry Strickland replied, taking Jorah’s offered hand.  “I wouldn’t have expected to find you in the company of the Dragon Queen and King in the North.  The wind tore at the thin grey hair Strickland had combed over his bald spot, causing it to lift and flop to one side.

“And I wouldn’t have expected you to have the stones to march on Winterfell.  Not with Queen Daenerys, her dragons, the Unsullied and Dothraki in residence.  I should have known any words out of that traitorous cunt Cersei Lannister’s mouth were nothing more than wind.  Her own brother confirmed as much.  Still, it’ll be a shame to watch you all burn.”  Jorah’s eyes narrowed at the cloth-of-gold banners and golden skulls on spikes carried by the column of 15,000 men behind Strickland.

Strickland lifted an eyebrow, his beady black eyes looking like shriveled grapes in his fat, jowly face.  “The Kingslayer’s here, eh? wouldn’t have expected that.  At any rate, we’re not here to march on Winterfell, Mormont,” Strickland said, glancing to his captains to his right and left.  He made a choking kind of noise, gathering a ball of phlegm in his throat, and hocked it to the ground near Jorah’s feet.  “We had a contract with Cersei Lannister, it’s true.  She sent her pet Euron Greyjoy and his fleet to ferry us across the Narrow Sea.  Greyjoy told us an interesting tale, aye, one Cersei heard from her little birds.  A curious tale it was indeed – dragons and wolves, eunuchs, horse lords and walking dead men.  Even a Northern bastard declared king, turns out to be another Aegon Targaryen.  You understand, we had to see it for ourselves.”

The mention of the implications of Jon Snow’s true name wasn’t lost on Jorah.  Only scant days ago, the truth had been revealed to the Northern lords, but others in the inner circle had known for weeks.   Jorah wondered how long Cersei had known, then he wondered who had sent the information south. Homeless Harry Strickland wasn’t cunning enough to lie, and besides, Jorah thought, it wasn’t like the Golden Company to attempt a sneak attack. With 10,000 men, the odds of surprise were against them. Yet it was even less like the Golden Company to break a contract.   Their company motto, “Our word is as good as gold,” rang through Jorah’s mind.  Normally, they didn’t involve themselves in politics, though they had fought in the Blackfyre Rebellions and the War of the Ninepenny Kings.  Was it possible they were here to swear their allegiance to Daenerys and Jon?

He looked to the left and right at Strickland’s entourage; some he knew as exiled Westerosi knights like himself, others he didn’t recognize. Laswell Peake inclined his head as Jorah met his eyes as did Marq Mandrake, and Tristan Rivers.  Black Balaq, A Summer Islander unused to the cold, sat shivering in his colorful cape of feathers. Gorys Edoryen was as ugly as ever.  “Hand over your weapons,” Jorah said to Strickland, “and you and your captains may follow me inside.  Your men can make camp over there.”  Jorah pointed to a large, flat area currently unoccupied.  “Where are the elephants?” he asked.

“We left them at The Twins,” Homeless Harry replied, not even phased at the prospect of surrendering his sword.  “Not exactly built for the North, you know.  Did you hear someone slaughtered the whole of House Frey, wiped them right off the map?”  Jorah didn’t acknowledge him, still pondering what their true motive could be for showing up at Winterfell. Oblivious, Strickland continued, “ I say, Mormont, any chance for some hot water inside?  My feet are killing me …”

“It’s not your feet you should be worried about Strickland.  Prepare to bend your knee.  After the wedding, of course.”

“Wedding?” Tristan Rivers asked.

Jorah met the sellsword’s eyes. “Yes, Queen Daenerys has agreed to a military alliance.  She will wed Jon Snow at dusk.”  Jorah did not miss the knowing smile that crept across Rivers’ lips.

* * *

 

Samwell and Davos trailed Jon to the godswood where Bran sat beneath the weirwood tree, his eyes glazed and white.  As Ned Stark so often had, Jon sat on the large flat rock beside the black pool.  Sam and Ser Davos stood to the side, slightly behind him.  Both waited quietly as steam rose like a whisper from the thermal waters into the frigid winter air.  As though sensing Jon’s presence, Bran blinked.  His eyes, brown once more, focused in on Jon’s grey ones.

“The wall has fallen.  The Night King and his army are marching south,” Bran said, his voice flat and emotionless as it always was these days.

“What of East Watch?” Jon asked.  He needed to know the fate of Tormund and Lord Beric.

“Many lost their lives as the Wall fell.  You want to know of Tormund Giantsbane and Beric Dondarrion - they both escaped the siege of the Night King and his dragon with their lives,” Bran replied. 

The relief that washed over Jon at hearing his friends were alive was short-lived. “What d’you mean, the Night King’s dragon?” Jon asked as Bran’s words fully sunk in.

“The Night King raised Viserion from the dead.  His flame is blue.  He answers only to the Night King now.  He brought down the Wall.”

The sun was beginning to fade.  Jon’s head was spinning.  Tonight, he was to wed his Queen.  Jon would have her for his wife, no matter what.  It was more important now than ever, if what Bran saw was true and Jon knew that it was.  The Wall had fallen, the army of the dead was on the march, the Night King at the helm and riding Viserion.  Last Hearth would fall first, then Karhold.  Then, Winterfell.  If they did nothing.  But they wouldn’t – couldn’t – do nothing.  He would march the army North to fight the dead.

But first, they would be married.  Husband and wife, they would have a wedding feast. It might be the last one their people ever had.   He would make love to his wife.  It might be the first and last time.  _One night, Gods, that’s all I ask_.  Jon had never had anything of his own, never had a right to anything, never wanted anything.  Until her.  Until Daenerys.  He would have this, even if it was just for tonight. 

He did not feel guilty or selfish; this love, it did not affect his honor or his duty.  He would have this, then he would gladly fight and die if that was the will of the Gods or God, whichever it was.  He thought of Beric Dondarrion’s words to him as they huddled, shivering in the bitter cold on the isle in the frozen lake, “You and I won’t find much joy while we’re here, but we can keep others alive.  We can defend those who can’t defend themselves … Maybe we don’t need to understand any more than that.  Maybe that’s enough … The Lord brought you back, he brought me back – no one else, just us.”

Jon had lain awake many a night in the small hours before dawn contemplating those words, Daenerys’ sleeping form beside him.  Why had he been brought back after his own men had stabbed him?  Before the Battle of the Bastards, he’d told Davos and Melisandre not to bring him back a second time.  That choice had been taken from him at the frozen lake, where he figured he’d been fully submerged in the frozen water for a good 10 minutes judging by how many of the dead had cleared away.  When he’d emerged gasping, and pulled himself onto the ice with Longclaw, he’d known he’d been dead.  He’d gone again to that black, empty place; to the nothing that existed in death.  He knew the Lord of Light had brought him back, this time with no intervention from a Red Priestess.  He did not ask why; he already knew.  _I am the shield that guards the realms of men._  

“How long before they reach Last Hearth?” Davos asked Bran.  Jon had told him to a certainty Last Hearth and Karhold would be on the Night King’s path of destruction.

“The dead don’t sleep,” Bran answered.  “Two days at most.”

“How long ‘til they reach Winterfell?” Davos then asked, alarmed.

“Two days from Karhold if they meet no opposition,” Bran replied, his voice hollow and distant.

“Then we must meet them in the field,” Davos said.  “We have a good plan, we will stick to it.  We will have a bloody fight.”  He looked at Jon, who seemed to be lost in thought, “But first, we must have a wedding.”

* * *

 

A soft knock sounded at Daenerys’ door as Missandei put the finishing touches on her hair.  She had chosen to forego her usual braids, opting instead to wear her hair down, loose and flowing, in the northern style.  She thought of Jon loosening her braids, running his fingers through her hair and telling her how he wished she’d wear it down more often.  A shiver ran down her spine.  He gloried in her hair; he often brushed it out for her before bed, and she caught him more than once leaning in close to smell the silken strands.   He’d told her she smelled of moonlight and violets, that thought made the corners of her mouth twitch with a secret smile.

With a final pat to Dany’s hair, Missendei went to answer the door.  To both of their surprise, it was Sansa and Arya.  Sansa had one large wrapped package.  Arya carried another large package with a smaller box on top.  Missendei stood back to allow them to enter.  Arya stumbled on an uneven stone in the doorway, sending the smaller box flying.  Everyone could only stare in horror, holding their breath.  Thankfully Missendei, with all the grace and skill of a feline, reached out and caught the box.  Everyone exhaled simultaneously.  Arya let out a

“I wasn’t certain if Your Grace had a dress for the ceremony, so I made this for you …” Sansa said with trepidation, tentatively laying her package on the bed.  She pulled the string and the paper wrapping fell away on the first package to reveal a rich crimson satin gown – a sleeveless affair, embroidered with falling silver leaves of silken thread. The color was obviously a nod to her Targaryen lineage.  Daenerys was touched and completely at a loss for words.  She felt hot tears in her eyes, threatening to spill.

“You don’t have to wear it if you don’t like it Your Grace …” Sansa began, but she was cut off as Dany threw her arms around her shoulders and hugged her.  Her throat was suddenly tight as she croaked, “Thank you Sansa.  It’s so lovely it takes my breath away.  I shall be honored to wear it.” She let go of her soon-to-be sister, took a step back and wiped at her eyes, smiling.  Arya set down the larger of her two packages.  “This goes with it,” she said simply, smiling back at Dany.

Daenerys pulled the string on the second package and pulled the wrapping paper back.  Within was a hooded white velvet surcoat, trimmed with white fur.   Daenerys had to bite her lip to keep from smiling.  She felt as giddy as her name day, nearly as ecstatic as she had been when Jon gifted her with her armor.  “This one is last, after you’ve got the rest on,” Sansa said as she lightly touched the box Arya still held.

After her bath earlier, Dany had slipped into a white silk chemise and soft velvet robe.  It was all she wore now as she sat and pulled on the thigh-high white silk stockings Missandei held out to her, and tied the satin garters at the tops into bows to keep them in place.  She stood and shrugged off her heavy velvet robe, which Arya caught as Dany let it slip off her shoulders.  Missandei and Sansa gathered the crimson gown and held it up for the queen as she stood with her arms upraised, and slipped them through the openings.  They let go of the hem and the heavy satin slid down over the chemise to Dany’s waist and legs to the floor.  In the back, the crimson satin pooled into a short train.  Sansa laced up the back of the dress as Missandei adjusted Dany’s slightly more ample cleavage in the low-cut ruched neckline.

Next Sansa held up the white velvet surcoat.  Dany slipped her arms into the trailing bell sleeves which were lined with the same embroidered satin as the dress.  The surcoat laced up the front, from her hips to just below her breasts.  The train on the cloak was longer, and along with the sleeves and hood, was edged with white fur and soft as sin.

“You look like a snow queen,” Arya said, doing her best not to giggle.  Still a flicker of giddiness crossed her face and her cheeks flushed with happiness.  She opened the remaining package - a small box – to reveal the crown of winter roses and held it out to Sansa.  Sansa gently lifted the crown and placed it on the top of Daenerys’ head, a stark contrast to her moon-pale hair.

Daenerys walked to the cheval looking glass in the corner to look at herself.  She barely recognized her own reflection.  Was this the woman Jon saw when he looked at her?  Once, she had been so certain of who she was, what she was – a girl, a queen, a conqueror, destined to take back her father’s throne with fire and blood.  Now, when she looked at her reflection, she saw a woman – still a queen, but also a wife, a friend, a lover, a mother-to-be.  _What is my destiny now?_ she wondered.  The future held fire and blood to a certainty.  But when the Battle for Dawn was over, if she survived it, would there still be Seven Kingdoms to rule, or even a throne left to sit upon?  Would Jon be there beside her, his ice tempering her fire?  In her mind’s eye, she saw again her vision at the House of the Undying: snow falling through the melted, tangled roof of and crumbled walls of the throne room in the Red Keep, still and silent as the grave.  Gone were the dragon skulls Viserys had told her of as children, the stained-glass windows were broken and shattered, the red and gold banners of House Lannister that had hung from the walls had all burned away to ash.  The Iron Throne was all that was left, Dany recalled.  Words unbidden suddenly echoed through her mind:   _Beneath the gold, the bitter steel._   She did not know what it meant, or where she had heard it, only that it was true.  A single tear escaped her eye and trailed down her cheek; she quickly wiped it away and turned back to Sansa, Arya and Missandei.  She wanted to remember this night forever - each of them dressed in their finest, every hair in place, the sweet scent of winter roses, the smiles upon their lips. 

A knock sounded at the door.  Everyone started, as lost in the moment as Dany had been.  “It’s time, Your Grace,” Missandei said softly.  Daenerys took a deep breath, ready as she would ever be.  Her King, she knew, awaited her in the godswood.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfic for Ao3, but I've been over on Tumblr (406ink) for a while. I'm considering continuing this story if I get enough feedback, so please let me know your thoughts. Also, I'm open to asks and requests and general feedback here and Tumblr.


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